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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25890217">How Fragile We Are, Between the Few Good Moments</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/emergencymanagement/pseuds/emergencymanagement'>emergencymanagement</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hogwarts Era, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Mutual Pining, Post-Sirius Black's Prank on Severus Snape, Regulus Black Feels, Runaway Sirius Black, Summer Vacation, am i doing this right, basically walburga is a horrific person, imma be real i don't know how tags work, one strong mention that might be a lot for some people</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:59:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>24,264</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25890217</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/emergencymanagement/pseuds/emergencymanagement</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>By the time it’s dark, there’s a fire crackling before them. The tent is set up. There are two chairs propped up by the fire. They have cooked and eaten dinner, and they are sitting in silence. It reminds Sirius of the dinners at home after he got sorted into Gryffindor, or after his mother found the letters from his friends, or lately, whenever he dares to show his face around the house at all. What lives in that space isn’t actually silence. Silence is absence. This thing that hangs between him and his mother, now between him and Remus, is the presence of something suffocating and cutting. It doesn’t serve as a placeholder for noise, it serves as a punishment. It cleaves him to the bone, flays him until he wants to cry. The soft, knotting feeling in his chest he feels when he wants to let tears out but can’t is rising in him. Sirius doesn’t know how to kill it except to hiss, “Well if you’re mad at me just fucking say so.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sirius Black/Remus Lupin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>94</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>420</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic takes place in the summer of 1976 during the famous drought that swept through the UK, right after the prank, right before Sirius runs away from home. </p><p>Title stolen from the poem "Vinegar and Oil" by Jane Hirshfield.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’re late,” Remus says when he opens the door. Warmth and the smell of lavender drift out of the house and kiss the night air.</p><p>“In my defense,” Sirius hefts his trunk up and steps closer to the doorway. “I never said when I’d be arriving. Maybe I was planning on arriving at two am. Maybe I’m early.”</p><p>“I thought you were dead,” A smile is playing on his lips, and a look of relief and curiosity flickers over the rest of his face like the shadows from the porchlight. </p><p>“Not dead.” Sirius steps past him into the dark foyer. “Just ready to sue, maim, or kill all of the Knight bus drivers. Bloody liars, saying it would take two hours.”</p><p>“Well, my parents think that you’ve been taken by the moors.” </p><p>“Do they? Do you think they can convince Walburga too?”</p><p>  Remus' mouth breaks into a smile in the slow, almost hidden, way it does. Relief washes over Sirius like cold water. The only light in the house is seeping out of the kitchen, barely straggling into the foyer. It grazes across the planes of Remus' face, and Sirius finds himself fixating on the crinkle by his left eye, the furrow between his brow, trying to catch the edge of his expressions through the dark. </p><p>“I’m not sure they’re on speaking terms,” he says, taking Sirius' bag. “but if you want to go hide in the mossy wet bits until term starts, be my guest.”</p><p>“You are the picture of grace, Remus,” he says as Remus carries his bag into the corner into the kitchen. “Your mother must be proud.”</p><p>He sets Sirius’ trunk down by the doorway. “You hungry?” he asks over his shoulder. </p><p>“On the verge of starvation.” </p><p>In the center of the kitchen, there’s a small round table made of the type of wood that looks loved. Sirius slips into one of its chairs.</p><p>“Only on the verge?” Remus asks, moving towards the ceramic box on the counter where they keep the bread.</p><p>“Had to leave something for you.”</p><p> Remus’ back is to him. In the soft light of the kitchen, Sirius can see his shoulders tense then release. Two months ago he would’ve laughed at that joke. Now Remus just shakes his head slightly and doesn’t respond. </p><p>As Remus moves around the room, putting a pot of soup on the stove, toasting up a slice of his mother’s bread, Sirius’ eyes wander. He has a vague memory of apparating to the cottage with Mr. Potter to pick Remus up one summer, but he only really got a small glimpse of the inside then. The kitchen is packed to the brim with belongings. Baskets hang above the copper sink, bundles of herbs dangle from the ceiling, one of Remus’ books, dog-eared and tired, is casually lying on the edge of the kitchen counter. Something about that makes Sirius’ chest feel tight. </p><p>Remus sets down two slices of bread and a bowl of stew in front of Sirius. He has a cracked porcelain mug held in his other hand and steam is rolling off of it. Sirius reaches for it. Remus raises his eyebrows and pulls it away.</p><p>“Oi, there’s a drought on,” Sirius says. “Worst in British history, in case you haven’t heard. It’s only patriotic to share your tea.”</p><p>“As if you have to worry about that.” Remus says, taking a sip of his tea. “The Potters can just magic their water.”</p><p>“Well, I’m not at the Potters, am I? And I’ve been on the Knight bus for hours. I’m practically dying of dehydration.”</p><p>Remus takes another sip of his tea. “Pity.”</p><p>Sirius bites his cheek to keep his smile in. There’s a playfulness dancing behind Remus’ eyes that he hasn’t seen in a while, that he wasn’t sure he’d see again. It’s like a small flame on a pile of tinder that he has to keep alive. </p><p>Remus puts his mug down and pulls out a chair. “So,” he says. “Why’d you take the Knight bus anyway? Couldn’t the Potter’s have apparated you?” </p><p>The lightness and hope that was rising in Sirius falls. He releases the clench of his jaw and shrugs. “Fancied a bit of a trip.”</p><p>Remus’ eyebrows raise. “Quite a trip.”</p><p>Sirius doesn’t respond to that. He pushes his spoon into the stew and pulls a bite into his mouth. The Potters<em> had </em> offered to apparate him on the way to the wedding. They had even invited him to the wedding. But letting them apparate him to the Lupins’ meant an official arrival; it meant introductions and politeness and the vague, skin-crawlingly uncomfortable feeling of intrusion, the same things he would’ve felt if he had just gone with the Potters on holiday in the first place. Sirius had been through all of that before. He knew what it was like to arrive somewhere you weren’t quite supposed to be and to have to silently prove yourself to the people there that they hadn't made a terrible mistake. These days he doesn’t know how to prove that to anyone. </p><p>“I told my parents you were staying for a week by the way,” Remus says. </p><p>Sirius pauses, his mouth half-full of food. He swallows part of it and lowers his spoon. “Okay.”</p><p>“I mean that’s what it seemed like in your letter. It was pretty vague.” </p><p> Sirius takes another bite of food and doesn’t look up. He pretends like he’s focused on the stew, but his mind is circling around Remus’ words, trying to figure out if he imagined the bite in them. Remus clears his throat, and Sirius can tell from the way he does it that he’s sorry.</p><p>“When are they making you come back to Grimmauld?” he asks, his voice softer.</p><p>Sirius shrugs. “In a few days. They want to see me before the end of the summer. Beat some sense into me, or something.”</p><p>“Bastards,” Remus says quietly. His voice sounds like an olive branch. </p><p>Sirius smiles. </p><p>Silence creeps into the space around them again. Sirius is too tired to break it. He drags his spoon along the bottom of the ceramic, making a harsh scraping sound he knows that Remus hates. Remus says nothing. He drinks his tea. </p><p>When Sirius finishes with his stew, Remus brings the ceramic dishes over to the little sinks and leaves them for the morning because the tap’s not on. Then he leads Sirius up the short stairwell to the upper floor. He doesn’t bring a light, so they move through the shadows. Remus tiptoes on the edge of the steps where the wood doesn’t creak. Sirius tries to walk quietly but bangs his trunk into the wall every few seconds all the same. Even as Sirius accidentally thumps against the wall and swears under his breath, Remus says nothing. When they get to his room, he gestures to a pile of blankets and a pillow on a mattress pad on the floor and says, “This is all I have.” Sirius shakes his head as if to say <em> that’s okay </em>, and Remus disappears into the bathroom down the hall. </p><p>As Sirius lies awake on the floor, he traces back through the end of the night. He thinks of how Remus didn’t make a joke or shush him when he made more noise than he should’ve. He thinks about how they didn’t talk before bed, how after Remus got over the relief of his arrival, he just pretended like Sirius wasn’t there. As sleep begins to sweep over Sirius, he wonders if this is coldness or kindness. He has never been very good at telling the two apart.</p><p>When Sirius wakes up, Remus is sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands tucked under his thighs. His heel is tapping a rhythm on the bedpost, and it looks like he’s been sitting there for a while. Sirius rolls over on his pile of blankets and looks up at the alarm clock perched on Remus’ nightstand. “What are you doing up?” he asks.</p><p>“It’s eight am.”</p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p>Remus’ brow furrows. He won’t throw the joke back to Sirius. “Can’t I wake up before eight am?”</p><p>“Last time I tried to wake you up before eight you told me to go fuck myself a thousand times and buried your head under your pillow. And the dorm was partially on fire then.”</p><p>Remus smirks at that. “Partially,” he murmurs. </p><p>Sirius sits up and pushes the blankets off himself. It’s barely morning, but the sun is already boiling against the panes of Remus’ window, and Sirius is glad he doesn’t have a shirt on. Remus looks at him, and his face does that funny little dance where half an expression flashes across it before it goes blank and he looks away again. </p><p>“What’s the matter with you? Why are you sitting vigil like you’re waiting for Johnny to come back from the war?”</p><p>Remus ignores him. “My da’s already left for work. My mum’ll leave soon too, then we can get breakfast.”</p><p>“Why can’t we go now?”</p><p>Remus cuts his eyes over to him. He looks like he does in the blurry morning after a full moon. He looks like he did the night before school for the summer when James locked them in the dorm and said he wasn’t letting them go until they sorted this whole thing out. They came out after a half-hour of Sirius’ apologizing while still not really apologizing and said that they were alright. The look never left Remus’ eye. </p><p>He sighs and stands up from the bed. “Alright.” His voice is flat.</p><p>Sirius follows him down the stairs and tries to figure out what he did wrong, aside from the obvious.  </p><p>An old radio is sitting on the kitchen counter. It is sputtering out the quick, bright notes of a swing jazz song. Hope Lupin is humming to herself, putting a pot in the sink to soak, scooping the last bit of extra eggs onto a plate, taking a sip of her coffee, seemingly all at once. </p><p>“Mum.” Remus gestures his hand at Sirius and nods slightly. It doesn’t feel like an introduction, it feels like a warning. For a second Sirius can’t breathe. </p><p>A warm smile stretches across her face and crinkles the edges of her eyes. </p><p>She does not know. This fact strikes Sirius square in the chest and some of the tension breaks. He realizes that although he had guessed he wouldn’t be staying here if Remus told her what happened, he wasn’t sure until now.</p><p>“Sirius dear,” she says. “So glad you made it alright. Did you come in last night?”</p><p>“Yes. I apologize if I made you wait. The bus was late. It wasn’t my intention to…” They’re both looking at him. Remus is frowning like he’s never seen Sirius before. “Intrude.”</p><p>Ms. Lupin gives a small laugh. “Don’t trouble yourself, Sirius. We’re glad to have you.” There’s a beat of silence. Right when Sirius realizes he’s supposed to respond to that, she turns to Remus and says, “There’s a plate of eggs over there. Not enough for the both of you, but I’m sure you’ll manage. If you want to make porridge, use the bucket your Da filled up with water this morning, the taps won’t be back on until later today.” She reaches up to ruffle Remus’ hair, but he’s too tall, and he ducks away smiling. “ I’m afraid I’ve got to go,” She says, turning back to Sirius. “But make yourself at home.” As she moves towards the doorway to leave, she gives Remus a brief kiss on the cheek and calls, “Love you, Cariad,” over her shoulder. </p><p> “Love you too,” Remus repeats. </p><p>Sirius hears the rustle of her grabbing something from the living room. Then the door slams, and they are alone. </p><p>With a smile playing on his lips, Remus says in a posh voice, “I do apologize if there are not enough eggs. It wasn’t my intention to disrupt your breakfast.” Remus’ Welsh accent bleeds a little into every word, but he’s had half a decade to learn how to imitate Sirius pretty well. </p><p>“Fuck you,” Sirius says, but he’s grinning. Remus smiles back at him a little wickedly, and Sirius finally exhales.  </p><p>Remus makes them both porridge while Sirius puts the kettle on because it’s the only muggle thing he’s good at. They fix up toast and pull the jam Mr. Lupin made from the strawberries in the garden out of the fridge. Remus spoons most of the eggs onto Sirius’ plate. </p><p>They eat in silence. Remus takes the World Events section of the newspaper but rips the crossword out for Sirius. The clue for sixteen down is: flea-ridden. Remus writes in <em> Sirius </em>and hands it over, an almost-smile on the edge of his lips.</p><p>Every morning at Hogwarts, they do this. Remus eats and reads the newspaper, a book, or an essay he’s editing. Sirius eats and reads the flickers in Remus’ expression. Today Remus’ brow is furrowed. He reaches up to brush a stray floppy curl out of his face every few minutes. Sirius wonders, if he reached out and touched it, how soft it would be. Something in his heart jolts at that thought. He used to try to press thoughts like that down into the mud of his subconscious, to not let them bubble up, but he’s never been very good at controlling his impulses. His eyes trace Remus’ cheek. The scar there is moving slightly, catching the light of the kitchen like the glint of a knife. He thinks about how Ms. Lupin so casually kissed Remus’ cheek this morning and said <em> love you, cariad, </em> and then he can’t stop thinking about it. </p><p>Sirius has never understood love very well. It’s something that is never explained, only shown. Students in their year buy matching gifts for each other on Christmas and sloppily make out in the hallways and say <em> I love you </em> to each other as if those words need no clarification <em> . </em> Mums smother their children with kisses at the train station and wave at the Hogwarts Express until it pulls out of sight, calling <em> I love you </em> and <em> be safe </em> after the receding window of their child’s compartment. No one ever says what that means. You're just supposed to know that a kiss on the cheek means I love you <em> ; </em> You're just supposed to know that a slap does not.</p><p>Is it debt? Is it obligation? Is it a bone-deep familiarity?  Is it looking at someone as you run away from the mess you both created, knowing that the same thrill is running through the both of you? Or is it watching everything someone does-- from the way they squeeze their eyes shut when they laugh to how they fold their socks twice after putting them on-- watching them because you can because no matter how much you absorb, you will never get enough? </p><p>Remus’ voice breaks his thoughts. “Aren’t you hungry?” His spoon is hovering halfway to his mouth. He’s holding it between his middle and forefinger the way he always does. Sirius hadn’t noticed that position was seared into his brain until now.</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>He nods to Sirius' full plate of food. “If you’re not, I’ll take your toast.” </p><p>Without thinking, Sirius pushes the plate towards the other boy. He watches as Remus plucks the bread off of it and licks a stray bit of black jam off his wrist.</p><p>  As Sirius pulls the plate back to his side of the table, he realizes that he is starving. </p><p>Remus disappears after breakfast. He doesn’t say where he’s going. He just stands up, puts his dishes in the sink, and walks out the door. Sirius spends a few minutes standing at the window, watching him move about the field, watering the garden, feeding the chickens. Remus never turns back to the window and waves. He never invites Sirius to come out with him. He just goes through the motions of his chores, methodically, like Sirius isn’t even there. </p><p>The only thing Sirius can do is stand and stare like a stupid helpless kid waiting for their parents to come back and say “it’s okay, it’s alright, I forgive you” which Sirius knows from experience, never fucking happens. He wants to hit the glass in front of him as hard as he can, maybe until it breaks, maybe until Remus puts down whatever he’s carrying to the barn and gives him that vacant, hard look that he always seems to be on his face these days. He wants to scream at Remus and make him scream back, if only to break this stupid balancing act of being friends and not being friends, of hating each other and loving each other, that Remus is intent on striking. Instead, he shoves his hands in the pocket of his leather jacket and storms up the stairs, making as much noise as he can even though there’s nobody around to hear it.</p><p>It takes Sirius about thirty seconds to find the weed, rolling paper, and lighter tucked in the bottom drawer of Remus’ dresser. For someone with such an enormous, apocalyptic secret, his friend is absolute shite at lying, and he’s even worse at hiding things.</p><p> Sirius rolls himself a joint, sitting tall on his pile of floor-blankets like they belong to him, and stares out the half-open window. All it’s letting in is heat, but Sirius knows if he closed it, he’d choke on the earthy smell of this room and this person that is not his. He lets his thumbnail dig into the spliff until a small cut blooms in the paper, then lifts it to his lips and lights it. He’s never admitted it to anyone, but his lungs don’t do well with smoke. No matter how many cigarettes or joints he goes through, he never gets used to the scraping burn in his chest on that first breath. </p><p>The world slows and stretches like time and space have been mixed together and spread out like molasses. He lies back against his pillow and stares at the ceiling. It’s vibrating in an invisible way that makes him nauseous. He sucks in another breath of smoke, not because he wants to, but because it hurts, and because it will make Remus mad. He tries to make the small act feel like revenge, but in that moment, he can’t really make himself feel anything at all.</p><p>By the time Remus comes into the room, the room isn’t really a room anymore. It feels more like an idea, and it’s not an idea Sirius likes very much. It’s fuzzy and painful, and it envelops him in its walls in a way that makes it impossible to get free. He watches Remus’ face as he travels from the door to Sirius’ spot on the floor. His face is in the only thing anchoring him. It is the only real thing Sirius has ever seen. He cannot tear his eyes away from it, and he’s not sure why he’d want to. It fills up most of Sirius’ vision because Remus is now sitting down next to him, holding out his hand, saying “Give it here, then,” in a soft voice and taking the joint from Sirius’ hands which really don’t feel much like his hands at all. </p><p>All of the atoms in the hardwood floor Sirius is sitting on, in the handknit quilt thrown across his feet, in the cutting blue sky out the window, eventually come back to each other. The world settles back down into something concrete with no spaces in between. Sirius’ head stops spinning. In this liminal space of being tethered to himself and not, Remus says, “We’re going camping, alright? That’s what we’re gonna do.”</p><p>“Alright,” Sirius says because he can’t find it in him to ask questions. </p><p> </p><p>They leave in the late afternoon. Remus uses his little telephone thing to call his mother to tell her not to worry. In the hour before they go, as Remus rummages through his house for supplies, Sirius tries to finish the crossword. He is uncomfortably sober, and he can’t stop looking at the scratches of Remus’ pencil along the side of the page. He feels like he has never seen them before, like he’s never even met the person that wrote them. As soon as he thinks this, he shoves the gently ripped puzzle under the pile of newspapers on the table. He goes up to his room and grabs the small bottle of firewhiskey he was saving for Grimmauld Place and tucks it into the waistband of his pants. He decides he will drink the whole thing as soon as he can. </p><p>The sun is blaring down on them when Remus hands Sirius a heavy pack that’s been spelled light and nods out at the moors. </p><p>Sirius looks out the open door. All of the menacing beauty that the moors held the night before are gone. In the dark, they were made of endless shadows, but in the light, Sirius can see all of the shades of the grass and the underbrush that make up their rolling landscapes. Swathes of brown brush mar the landscape of lush fields. They glow in the bright and baking sun like dark embers. If there ever were any clouds in the sky, the sun has scorched them away by now. </p><p>Remus crosses the threshold of the cottage and starts across the field. He doesn’t even shut the front door. Sirius does it for him. The sky stretches so far it looks like it’s about to collapse. The world is so wide and open it hurts. Remus is walking into it like he’s running from something. </p><p>They don’t speak for a long time. They cross the groomed green fields of the Lupin property, step over a low barbed wire fence, and cut across the fields of the only other farmhouse in sight towards a little dirt path that runs down a hill. From there, the ground grows pitted and rocky. The grass turns into weeds and rough shrubbery that they have to carefully pick around. The sun is beating down like a punishment, and sweat is rolling down Sirius’ back, pooling in the space between his shoulder blades where his pack is hanging. He doesn’t know where they’re going. He doesn’t ask.  </p><p>They walk for what feels like hours. Green fields turn into moorland, then Remus steers them left a bit, and it turns back into farmland again. There are hardly any houses around. Sirius sees a cow and realizes it’s the first one he’s ever seen. He grins and opens his mouth to tell Remus this as they pass it, but stops himself. He bites his words and watches Remus' methodical gait and the way he swings his arms by his sides instead. He tries to suffocate all the things he wants to say with these details. He tries to make them enough.</p><p>Eventually, they reach a small road and the farmland stops. There are no houses on the other side of it. The hills look steeper and craggier. They somehow seem more alive than the flatter farmland, like they are not hills at all, but sleeping giants, thrumming with something invisible but vital. </p><p>There is a sign on the other side of the road that says: </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> National Park Land </em>
</p><p>
  <em> These moors are closed for public access by the direction of the Ministry of Agriculture due to the exceptional risk of fire.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Access provisions are hereby withdrawn temporarily until further notice.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> DO NOT GO ONTO THE MOORS.  </em>
</p><p>Remus walks right past it. </p><p>For the whole hike, the grass has been browner than it should be, but now it seems to be dying with each step they take. When the wind blows through it, it rustles loudly. Remus’ stride leads them up a hill that’s steeper than any of the ones they’ve hiked before. Sirius hasn’t said anything since they began walking. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but the sun is making eyes at the horizon. Right when he’s about to beg Remus to stop, they reach the top of the hill, and Remus slows to a halt. </p><p>A river basin spreads out below them, cupped in the palm of the hills. No water flows through it. The dirt of the river bed has cracked into thousands of pieces like dry skin splitting until it bleeds. It looks irreparably broken.</p><p>When Remus finally speaks, it’s been so long that Sirius almost thinks he imagined it: “It hasn’t rained in months,” he says.</p><p>The grass whispers to itself as the wind brushes by. Sirius looks at Remus. His hands are dug deep in his pockets, his shoulders are hunched. His gaze is fixed on the scarred earth below. </p><p>“Do you think it will again?” It's a stupid question. He says it anyway.</p><p>Their eyes meet. There is the same feeling in both of them. </p><p>“I hope so,” Remus says. Then he ducks his head and turns away, and Sirius feels like they’re being cut apart like he’s being physically peeled away from Remus' skin. “But I don’t know,” Remus finishes as he begins to walk down the hill.</p><p>Sirius lets him go. He digs the toe of his boot under a loose rock and kicks it as hard as he can through the dry grass towards the empty river. It jumps and skitters a few yards, then rolls to a stop. He doesn’t feel any better. </p><p> </p><p>They never really get to the campsite. They just get to the top of one of the hundreds of hills, and the sun is low in the sky, so they stop there. Hunger is clawing at Sirius’ stomach.</p><p>Remus pulls the tent out of his pack, hands it to Sirius, and nods at it. As Sirius begins to pull out tent poles, Remus takes out matches and firewood that he got from somewhere. </p><p>“What are you doing?” Sirius asks. </p><p>“We’re going to start a fire.”</p><p>Sirius thinks of the two months with no rain, and the tap that only runs for four hours a day, and the sign they walked past earlier, and says, “That’s a bad decision.” </p><p>Remus is crouching beside the patch of ground that he’s started to clear of grass. He is holding the matches in one of his hands. He puts them down, looks up at Sirius, and says, “Is it.”</p><p>“Point taken,” Sirius mutters and turns back to the tent. </p><p> </p><p>By the time it’s dark, there’s a fire crackling before them. The tent is set up. There are two chairs propped up by the fire. They have cooked and eaten dinner, and they are sitting in silence. It reminds Sirius of the dinners at home after he got sorted into Gryffindor, or after his mother found the letters from his friends, or lately, after he dared to show his face around the house at all. What lives in that space isn’t actually silence. Silence is absence. This thing that hangs between him and his mother, now between him and Remus, is the presence of something suffocating and cutting. It doesn’t serve as a placeholder for noise, it serves as a punishment. It cleaves him to the bone, flays him until he wants to cry. The soft, knotting feeling in his chest he feels when he wants to let tears out but can’t is rising in him. Sirius doesn’t know how to kill except to hiss, “Well if you’re mad at me just fucking say so.”</p><p>Remus doesn’t look up from the fire. Somehow that’s the worst thing he could possibly do. The feeling twists on itself harder, crushing Sirius’ lungs. </p><p>“I said I forgive you,” The words drop like stones from Remus' mouth. </p><p>“You say all kinds of bullshit.”</p><p>Remus lets out a sharp laugh. He shakes his head and looks up at the sky. It’s so black that it looks like a hole, like somebody ripped the world in half and left a gaping, hungry space between each horizon. </p><p>The fire crackles on. The footsteps of some animal crunch on the underbrush around them. Sirius waits for Remus to speak. A horribly familiar feeling is building in his chest with each passing moment of silence. </p><p>“I said. If you’re pissed off. Just tell me,” Sirius grinds out. Remus doesn’t respond; he keeps his eyes fixed on the night sky, his jaw working like he’s chewing the insides of his cheeks raw. Sirius follows his gaze up to the scythe moon carving out a curve of light in the blackness. The silence makes the glow of the moonlight unbearable.  “Don’t fucking ignore me.” He means it to sound like a command, but it comes out like a plea. The bare need in it makes him flinch. He wants to slap himself for sounding like that because there’s no one around to do it for him. </p><p>Remus finally meets his eyes. “What do you want me to say?” he asks quietly. </p><p>Remus is sitting across next to him, there’s a fire glowing before them, yet Sirius might as well be stranded, naked and freezing in the middle of the darkening moors, calling out for a person who’s not coming. “You said you weren’t mad,” he manages. “Why would you say you’re not mad if you’re just going to…” He trails off. He can’t come up with anything less childish than that. </p><p>“It’s not like I can just opt-out of being your friend.”</p><p>“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Sirius stands up. The chair topples back behind him. Remus looks up at him wearily. </p><p>“It means when you write me and say that you have nowhere else to go…”</p><p>Sirius paces around to the other side of the fire. “I’m not your fucking charity case.”</p><p>“Don't flatter yourself, I wouldn’t take you on as one.” </p><p>Sirius turns around and meets the other boy’s eyes from across the flames. Remus is on his feet now too. His gaze has hardened, and it doesn’t waver as it meets Sirius’. </p><p>“If you want me to leave,” Sirius has to fight with each word to keep it level. “just say so.”</p><p>Silence echoes between them. </p><p>Remus sighs and looks down at the fire, then at anywhere but Sirius. He shakes his head. “Why’d you do it?” His voice is quiet, but it’s the loudest and clearest thing Sirius has ever heard. </p><p>Sirius opens his mouth but nothing comes out. A thousand answers rush to the surface like water breaking out of a dam, but he is helpless to elucidate any of them. His mouth has been detached from his brain. <em> Because Snape’s an evil git. </em> He thinks and cannot say because right after that thought comes: <em> Because I thought he was more of a coward. Because I didn’t think he’d believe me. Because I can see from the way that he walks and talks that he thinks he’s better than all of us because he’s a pureblood. Because he looks like my mother when he smirks. Because I look like my mother when I lie. Because I forgot to shave for a weekend in July, and when I finally did, I almost cut myself because I saw my father in the mirror. Because Severus is relentless and selfish and obsessive. Because I am too.  </em></p><p>Remus is still watching him, waiting for an answer. Sirius feels the same way he did when he told Severus about the Willow. He feels like he would die or kill to separate himself from the snagging thorns of his family and all the Slytherins. He would rip the world in half if it meant that he could put himself on one side of the ravine and them on the other. Standing in the dark hallway with Severus, taunting him and daring him, Sirius was both the closest he had ever come to not being a Black and the closest he had ever come to being one entirely. No matter how he twists and turns, he is ensnared. No matter what Sirius does, he destroys. </p><p>“I wanted to hurt him, not you,” Sirius says as if that makes it better. </p><p>“I refuse to believe that you are that stupid.” Remus’ tone is flat. He is hugging himself like he’s cold. Sirius has the urge to take off his leather jacket and hand it to him. He knows he would not take it. </p><p>“I didn’t think he’d do it. I thought he’d think we were taking the piss and give up. I wanted to make him feel like a prat, not kill him.” Sirius steps forward. Heat sears against his legs, and he remembers that there’s a fire between them. Silence passes over them. “Remus,” Sirius says like someone tore the word loose from him. </p><p>Remus looks up at him.  “What do you want from me?” </p><p>Sirius doesn’t know what he wants. All he knows is that he hates himself, and he hates his family, and he hates Snape, and he doesn’t hate Remus. He loves Remus so much that sometimes it feels like he’s suffocating, and yet Remus is standing here, his face twisted up with so much pain it makes Sirius want to scream at the dark and empty sky. “I don’t know. What am I supposed to do here?” Sirius hisses.</p><p>Remus splits a stick in half and throws it into the fire. “Feel like shit.” </p><p>“I do.” Sirius tries to keep his voice from breaking, but it cracks anyway. The light of the fire fully illuminates Remus’ face. His eyebrows are drawn, and there’s something bordering on alarm and surprise in his gaze. “I do,” Sirius repeats with as much anger as he can, and even he can hear how feebly it covers up the rawness beneath. “I know it was a shit thing to do. I know I’m a shit friend who fucks up constantly and shows up at inconvenient times and eats all your mum’s bread. I <em> know </em>. I act like I don’t know, but I do. I think about it all the time.” He squeezes his eyes shut. Blackness spins around his lack of vision. He tries to focus on that and not on how badly he wants to stop talking. “I’m trying not to be like them, alright? That’s why I hate Sniv-- Sev-- that’s why I hate him so much. I want to be different, I just--” Sirius opens his eyes again and meets Remus’ gaze.  “Have never known how.” Remus’ arms are hanging loosely at his sides. He’s a head taller than Sirius, but he’s standing like he doesn’t realize it. The hurt in his eyes and the softness in his gaze tears something permanently loose in Sirius. “I don’t want to be the way I am,” Sirius rasps. </p><p>“Me neither,” Remus murmurs. </p><p>Sirius doesn’t know which one of them Remus is talking about, but he doesn’t ask. Both could be true. </p><p>For a moment that seems deep enough and wide enough to hold the world, they stand on opposite sides of the fire, looking at each other. The flames reach towards the stars, consuming all of the air that hangs between them. </p><p>Then Remus steps towards him. He stands before Sirius, tall and unsure, all gangly limbs and quiet movements. The sight of him punches all the air out of Sirius’ lungs. Sirius steps forward into the heat. </p><p>They are so close that Sirius can feel the other boys’ breath on his cheeks. Dizzily he wonders how they got here. He tries to remember if being near Remus always felt like this, but his thoughts keep spinning away from each other. They keep vanishing in favor of pouring all of his focus onto the curve of Remus’ nose and the sleepy smell of his sweater. </p><p>“Sirius,” Remus says. </p><p>“Yeah?” The word barely scrapes out of his throat. </p><p>“I think…” his gaze drifts down, “you might be on fire.”</p><p>Sirius follows his eyes down to the ankle of his sweatpants and stumbles back from where the flames are licking up the cloth. “Fuck!” He swats at the smoldering fabric with his bare hand. Remus grabs onto Sirius’ bicep to steady him and grinds the heel of his boot on the remaining flicker of heat.</p><p>“Ow,” Sirius hisses, twisting away from him and grabbing the spot where the boot dug in. </p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>“S’alright.”</p><p>Remus asks, “Is it out?” and bends over to look at his ankle. As he does a soft golden curl brushes against Sirius’ shoulder. </p><p>Sirius steps quickly backward. “Yeah. S’fine.”</p><p>Remus nods and straightens up. A beat of silence passes between them. Then Remus says, “Well,” and runs his hand across the back of his neck. He fixes his eyes on the smudged dark horizon. “Probably about time to tuck in.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Sirius repeats hollowly.</p><p>Remus clears his throat and looks around at the ground at his feet like he’s searching for something even though there’s nothing there but grass. “Should probably put this out,” he murmurs and turns away. </p><p>“Yeah,” Sirius says again. </p><p> </p><p>When Sirius wakes up the next morning, Remus is already packing up the campsite, spreading the cold ash from the night before over the earth. </p><p>“Leaving already?” Sirius asks as he ducks out of the tent and into the cool air of the morning. </p><p>Remus shoots him a glance over his shoulder and nods. “Figured we could hike back and catch breakfast at my house before it gets too late. Thought I’d spare catching you on fire again. And--” Remus straightens up and digs his hands into his pockets. “You know, spare you from having to share a tent with me for another night.” He lets out a small cough as if that will distract from the image flashing through Sirius’ mind: the searing memory of lying in the dark in a small tent next to Remus, listening to his breath, feeling his body heat radiate out from his sleeping bag. </p><p>Sirius says nothing because he doesn’t trust himself to speak. </p><p> </p><p>When they get back to the house, the front door is open and nobody is home. Remus walks into the cottage like this is completely normal and drops the tent in the foyer. Somebody has thrown all the curtains back from the windows, and the sun is mid-sky. Golden light is spilling over everything. Even when it's empty, the cottage seems to thrum with life. As they step into the living room, Sirius wonders how this house and Grimmauld Place can exist in the same dimension. He wonders how he’s allowed to be here at all. </p><p>Remus drops his bag on the soft carpet and says, “Here, I want to show you something.” He smiles as he says it.</p><p>They spend the rest of the morning sitting next to each other on the floor of the living room--close but not so close that Sirius can’t think of anything else-- and they watch the television. Sirius has never seen anything like it. The little box lights up with so many images and scenes that Sirius’ mind would never think to conjure on its own. Cars of every color and make sputter and veer across the screen. People laugh and cry and yell and scowl in cuts and patterns that he has only seen in muggle magazines. During a commercial, a little boy shovels ice cream into his mouth. His father smiles-- everyone is smiling, everyone is happy-- and gently wipes some chocolate off the boy’s chin like it means nothing. The image of Mrs. Lupin kissing Remus’ head as she walks out the door flashes in Sirius’ mind for a second. It hits Sirius, like a blow to the chest, how easy it would be to get lost in this world if there were nothing and nobody anchoring you. </p><p>Without thinking, he turns to look at Remus, but Remus’ eyes are already on him. His gaze is soft and unreadable again. </p><p>“You like it?” Remus asks. </p><p>“Like what?” Sirius asks, dumbly. </p><p>The commercial flickers off and the familiar faces of the t.v. show they’re watching appear again. “The program,” Remus says. </p><p>Sirius realizes that he has no idea what the show is about or what’s happening. Its setting is completely unfamiliar. Then he remembers that Remus said something about it being a muggle auror office. “Someone killed someone or something... right?” he asks. He is still looking at Remus, at how the corner of Remus’ lip quirks up when he says that. </p><p>“Something like that.” Remus’ voice is low and gravelly. Sirius tries to pinpoint when it began to sound like that but gets lost one step into the thicket of all of the memories of Remus that have piled up since the day they met on the train. “Except,” he continues. “They can’t prove he was involved. He has a good alibi. Plausible deniability.”</p><p>“Plausible deniability,” Sirius repeats. </p><p>Neither of them is watching the tv anymore. The light from the windows is streaming over Remus’ curls, creating a soft halo-like corona, and into Sirius’ vision. Sirius doesn’t dare break eye contact even though his eyes are beginning to burn. This is the longest Remus has looked at him for months. </p><p>“It’s like when someone knows something’s happening, but they don’t want to admit it. So they make sure they never do anything that could be used as proof--</p><p>“That they knew all along,” Sirius finishes. </p><p>“Yeah,” Remus says, but the word half-dies in his throat. </p><p>For a moment, Remus lets the silence between them be. It expands around them, circles, then settles down like a cat curling asleep. Remus never needs to say much to Sirius. The curl of his finger on his mug of tea, the cock of his head, the slope of his shoulders-- all of it makes up a language that Sirius knows so well that he has forgotten what it's like to not speak it. Sirius can tell that there’s something churning in the other boy’s mind at this moment, that he’s weighing every option simultaneously, balancing the madness within against his iron control. Remus shakes his head slightly and stares at the tv again, but his gaze is unfocused.  “It’s safer,” he says. “That way.”</p><p>Sirius wants to say <em> fuck safer, when have any of us played it safe </em>, but he is paralyzed. He can’t stop watching Remus. His eyes are stuck on the soft scar tissue stretching across the boy’s left temple and the smattering of freckles on his nose, then on where he has chewed his bottom lip raw. The words start in Sirius’ throat, but he kills them. They will break the stillness of this moment. He has to be happy with this much. He can not ruin this too.</p><p>For the rest of the day, Remus shows Sirius all Hope’s muggle rock records and sixties protest music, and they play them on the record player, turning the volume up as loud as it will go. Remus brings down another blunt and they smoke it out the window of the cramped living room, Sirius head on the sill, Remus’ propped up on his arm. </p><p>As the day starts to bleed away, Remus pulls out a pack of cards and beats Sirius at poker again and again until Sirius tackles him to the ground to try and get his money back, but has to roll off of him when they hear Hope’s old Camaro pull up the drive. It all flows by quickly: laughing as they try to air out the living room before Remus’ mum walks in, dinner with Remus’ parents, sharing Sirius’ bottle of firewhiskey as they watch a dumb muggle movie on tv. Everything feels so normal that by the time one of the Black family’s sleek white owls lands outside Remus’ window that night, Sirius has almost forgotten about the sickness that’s been living in his stomach for months, maybe years. As he takes the letter from the creature’s beak, it washes over him again. There is one light on in Remus’ room, and even under its soft glow, the animal looks cold and evil. Sirius can’t tell which part of this he is dreaming: the unsettling black presence before him or the comfort of Remus’ home. He can’t comprehend that he is surrounded by both at once. </p><p>“What’s that?” Remus’ voice asks from behind him. </p><p>Sirius turns around, the letter clutched in his hand, and hears the owl fly off behind him. He doesn’t answer, just runs his nail under the seal of the envelope and pulls the parchment out. Remus comes closer. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sirius Black,  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> This is a reminder-- in case you have carelessly forgotten, as you so often do-- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> that you are expected at Grimmauld Place in two days' time. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You have chosen to spend the summer away from your family, and so it will be up </em>
</p><p>
  <em> to you to return on your own. Do not expect transportation to be provided to you. As your </em>
</p><p>
  <em>father and I have told you before, if you do not accommodate this family, we will not accommodate you.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I will see you Sunday. There are quite a few matters we have to discuss. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>  Walburga Black </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sirius folds up the letter. He holds it in his hands and stares at the spot on the sill where the owl was. He can’t move. Remus is waiting for him to speak, but Sirius has nothing to say. His mother, even the ghost of her presence, slits him open and drains him dry. She has known his weaknesses since before he was born; she can make him a husk with a single word. He wants to lay down for a very long time. </p><p>Remus gently takes the letter out of his hands. Sirius clears his throat and runs his hand through his hair, about to say <em> fuck her, am I right? </em> or <em> I don’t care </em> or anything that will make this moment pass. Before he can, Remus slowly begins to shred the paper. He rips it piece by piece until it is unrecognizable then drops it in the trash bin. Sirius opens his mouth to speak, but Remus isn’t paying attention to him. He is reaching down into the bottom drawer of his dresser, pulling out his lighter, and lighting the contents of the metal trash can on fire. For a long moment, they stand there and watch it burn, then Remus stomps the flames out and puts the lighter down on his nightstand. </p><p>“The bathroom’s free, if you want to go wash up,” he says to Sirius. </p><p>Sirius doesn’t reply. He just watches Remus open-mouthed as Remus pulls back the comforter of his bed and flicks off the light on his nightstand. When it becomes clear that Remus is not going to say a word about what he just did, Sirius forces himself to turn towards the bathroom. He wants to say something to the other boy, but he can’t even begin to guess what he’d say. </p><p> </p><p>The room is dark and smoky. He can’t even tell if it’s a room, he can’t see far enough to tell if there are walls. It could be the forbidden forest or the small garden behind his house. The only thing that makes him think he’s inside is how closed in he feels like the world is a moment away from collapsing around him. He knows he is asleep. His mother’s face only appears like this in dreams: too thin and sallow, devoid of any of the beauty that haunts her in real life. She is grinning. Her teeth are sharp and shiny,  and they look like they belong in the mouth of a dog. Again, her hands are around his neck. </p><p>He is begging her to let go. He cannot speak, but he is pouring everything into his gaze as if he can convince her with a look alone that he does not deserve to be hurt. Her fingers squeeze tighter. She is not saying anything. She is just killing him.</p><p>The world is shrinking. There is smoke or fog or something claustrophobic and choking drifting through the air. He keeps trying to breathe, but every inhale feels like scraping a knife down his lungs. He reaches up to claw at his mother’s hands, but they aren’t there. Instead thorny vines are winding up his body, pressing into his esophagus. He runs his hands down along them, letting them draw blood from his palms, following them until he hits the dirt. He is choking and spluttering, there are tears running down his cheeks. He is trying to scream but the only sound he can make is a horrible, halting gasp. The dirt digs under his fingernails as he begins to scrape against it, trying to rip the vines out by the root. The vines slowly begin to rise up as he pulls, unspooling from the earth, but there is no ending to them, in fact, he can’t even tell if he is pulling them up or they are pulling him down-- <em> Fuck, fuck,  </em></p><p>fuck,” he gasps. The room is dark and spinning. The mountain of blankets and sheets Remus gave him are tangled around his legs, and he has rolled off of the mattress pad and onto the hardwood. He kicks the sheets away but doesn’t move from his position on the floor. The wood is pressing against the back of his head. He closes his eyes and tries to slow his breathing, trying to feel the discomfort of the oak and nothing else. His hands are still numb. </p><p>“Sirius,” Remus’ voice reaches through the dark like an outstretched hand. </p><p>For half a second, Sirius considers pretending to be asleep. The tree outside Remus’ window shifts in the wind. Its leaves sigh, and their shadows dance across the ceiling. Sirius forces himself to focus on them and them alone as he says, “Yes?”</p><p>There is a brief pause. “Alright?”</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>Another pause. “Are you sure?”</p><p>“Did I wake you?”</p><p>“I was already awake.” Remus’ voice is unsteady at the edges. Sirius can tell that he’s lying.</p><p>“I wasn’t loud, was I?”</p><p>Pause. “No.”</p><p>Sirius screws his eyes shut, but the darkness makes it worse. He opens them again and watches the shadows on the ceiling. There is a hot, sticky feeling metastasizing inside him. He didn’t want Remus to hear, to know. This nightmare wasn’t even bad. It was barely even a nightmare. Sirius tries to shut off that part of his brain before it can ask: <em> so then, how many others has he heard? </em></p><p>“Sorry,” Sirius says before he can stop himself. He simultaneously wants to punch himself for that and say it again, and again. He knows he would only say it in the dark.</p><p>Remus’ window is cracked slightly. Air brushes into the room with the lightness of wind that is just visiting. Sirius hears something shift, and he can't tell if it’s Remus moving or the trees outside.</p><p>“You can come up if you want,” Remus says, and it’s obvious how hard he’s trying to keep his tone even.</p><p>Sirius takes in a deep breath, then realizes that Remus can hear him doing it. “Alright,” he says, the word airless. </p><p>He stands up. The blankets are still tangled around his legs and he has to kick them off. The shadows of the room turn over in their sleep, moving just slightly in the corner of Sirius’ vision as he makes his way across the floor.  Remus has pulled back the covers on the left side of the bed and laid back down, his back turned to Sirius. Sirius slips under the soft sheets. They are the perfect temperature; they smell of home; they feel like they were made to comfort. </p><p>“Thank you,” Sirius whispers. </p><p>“Course Pads.” He murmurs.  </p><p>A small smile creeps onto Sirius’ face. </p><p>He doesn’t fall asleep. He watches the kaleidoscope of dim light on the ceiling and thinks of Remus calling him <em> Pads</em>. He thinks of it over and over until gray dawn begins to bleed into the corners of things, and comfortable exhaustion pulls Sirius deep below his own thoughts. </p><p>He dreams of nothing. When he finally surfaces from his sleep, the sun is shining into his eyes and he is warm in the nest of pillows and blankets he has created in Remus’ bed. He feels alive. </p><p>Beside him, Remus’ chest rises and falls. The clock says it’s almost eleven am, and Sirius spends a few minutes listening for the sound of Remus’ parents downstairs. When he hears nothing, he settles back down into the sheets and decides that he will get up, in a little while.</p><p>As the sun climbs closer to the top of the sky, Sirius creeps downstairs into the Lupin kitchen. Remus is still asleep. By the time he wakes up, Sirius decides that he will have made them both breakfast, and that small act will say something important that he cannot say out loud, maybe <em> I’m sorry</em>, maybe <em>thank you for not asking me what my nightmare was about you know I hate that</em>, maybe <em>here’s some toast (I love you)</em>. Either way, Remus will understand. Now all he has to do is figure out how the hell you make food the muggle way. </p><p>When Remus walks into the kitchen, a big lopsided grin that Sirius hasn’t seen in months stretches across his face. A fist clenches around Sirius’ heart. “What the hell are you doing?” Remus asks, still smiling. </p><p>“What’s it look like?”</p><p>“It looks like you’re making,” He walks over to the saucepan that Sirius has put on the stove he has managed to light. “Soup?” Remus asks. Then he leans over to look in the pot and laughs. “Or just bread in a pot. What<em> are </em> you doing?”</p><p>“I’m making toast.”</p><p> Remus laughs again. That same smile lights up his whole face, and Sirius desperately scrambles to think of how he can keep it there. It turns out he doesn’t have to do anything, because the minute the smile begins to fade, the laughter bubbles up again and Remus shakes his head, his eyes squeezed shut, crinkling at the edges. “Why?” He asks, still laughing. “How?”</p><p>“Well I couldn’t use my wand and all your normal pans are hidden. Your mother is very sneaky you know, she hides utensils better than McGonagall hides the key to her office.”</p><p>“She only does that because you’ve filled it with kitty litter three times.”</p><p>“Maybe I wouldn’t if she didn’t make such a show of hiding it. It’s almost like she’s tempting me.” Remus shakes his head, still smiling, and reaches into the pot to pull the bread out. “Also,” Sirius adds. “Me? Who came up with that idea in the first place?”</p><p>“Careful there. Defame me anymore and I won’t teach you to make toast.” Remus turns the slices of bread over in his hands. He shoots Sirius an odd look. “You hate sourdough.”</p><p>“You like it.”</p><p>Whatever Remus is about to do, he stops. His hands still. The change is so small only someone watching would notice. “You were trying to make this for me?” he asks. </p><p>Sirius shrugs. “Made you tea too.” He pushes a mug across the counter to Remus. </p><p>For a moment, Remus looks like he has no idea what to do. Then he reaches out carefully and picks up the mug like he’s picking up something incredibly fragile. He takes a sip. “You put milk and honey in it.”</p><p>“Obviously.”</p><p>Remus stares down into the cup. “I always drink out of this mug.”</p><p>Sirius steps back and puts his hands in his pockets. He can’t admit that he knew that, so he says nothing at all. </p><p>For a long moment, Remus stares at the mug in his hands with an unreadable expression on his face. Then he puts it down carefully, When he meets Sirius’ gaze, there is a gentleness in his eyes that is so fervent, Sirius’ breath catches in his throat. Then Remus shakes his head slightly, like he’s clearing it and says, “I’ll teach you how to make toast.”</p><p> </p><p>Remus teaches him how to make toast, how to play a game called Gin Rummy, how to make a drink called Gin and Tonic out of the alcohol in the cabinet, and by the time night comes, Sirius is buzzing with so much energy that he can’t put a name to and that he only feels around Remus, that he says, “Let’s do something fun.” He gives Remus the smile he uses to coerce his friends into doing something they shouldn’t, and thank fucking everything, Remus smiles back. </p><p>The Lupins are gone. They took Mrs. Lupin’s car into town to have dinner at one of the only restaurants in 100 square kilometers like they do every month. This concept makes no sense to Sirius as he can’t imagine his parents willingly doing anything together, but he just assumes it’s a muggle thing. As much as he likes Mr. &amp; Mrs. Lupin, he’s glad to have them out of the house. If they had been home, Remus never would have smiled back at him, gone out into the shed at the edge of their property, and came back with an armful of fireworks. They wouldn’t be speeding down a dirt road in the darks towards an empty field Remus says no one owns. </p><p>There are no lights on the moors. Every once in awhile they’ll pass the soft glow of a house in the distance, or another car will brush past them towards town, but other than that, darkness covers everything. Sirius has no idea how Remus can see or recognize anything, but eventually Remus pulls off the road and bumps into the grass a bit, then cuts the engine. He gives Sirius a big dopey smile that makes Sirius’ heart spasm oddly and says, “We’re here.” </p><p>Sirius looks around them. They are parked on a field that yawns and stretches out before them, then gently slopes down a hill into the darkness. “Why did we come all the way out here?”</p><p>“My mom knows the lady who lives over the hill from us, and all the other fields belong to people.” </p><p>As Remus grabs the bundle of fireworks and steps out of the truck, Sirius swings out after him. The heat from the day has evaporated, and the air has a cold bite to it. He looks up to the sky as his feet hit the grass. Above them, the light from the moon and the stars blend together and ghost over the fields. On the far side of the horizon, clouds are rolling in, winking out the stars one by one. It’s been so long since Sirius has seen rain that he’s forgotten clouds even exist. </p><p>“Think we’ll catch anything on fire?” Sirius asks.. </p><p>“Nah. My dad charmed these. They’re safer that way.”</p><p>“Oh.” He tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice. </p><p>Remus smiles and steps closer. The headlights of the truck shut off, and they are swallowed up by the cool night. </p><p>“You ever seen fireworks before?” Remus asks. </p><p>“No.” Remus is looking down at him, and he’s tall enough that when he stands before Sirius it feels like he takes up the whole world. “James saw them at a Quidditch match? In Sweden? He said it was fucking brilliant. I never got to go to one of those though. Walburga thinks they’re garish, so.”</p><p>Remus hums. “Well,” he says. “Then stay here.”</p><p>“But--”</p><p>“Close your eyes.” Remus steps backward into the darkness. Sirius opens his mouth to protest, but Remus just turns on his heel and calls, “Close your eyes, Padfoot,” over his shoulder. </p><p>Sirius does. </p><p>In the pressing dark he has created, Sirius tries to pick apart all of the sounds dancing on the edge of his hearing. He thinks he can hear Remus walking away from him, a rustling in the grass, and the snap of a twig, but the sounds disappear and blend together as quickly as they come. His nerves are lit up with expectation. They are straining towards every new noise, towards Remus. </p><p>The sounds of running footsteps crackle in his ears and Sirius opens his eyes to see Remus sprinting towards him in the dark. Before Remus can tell him to close his eyes again, something strikes the drum of the night, and Sirius jerks his head up to see the hundreds of tendrils of light shattering against the sky. </p><p>“Fuck!” Sirius screams just as another drumbeat hits, and a packet of blue explodes behind the first falling ghost. Remus is laughing. His body is shaking, and his eyes are on Sirius, and it's like all the joy that lives under skin that he spends every moon trying to drown is finally bleeding out, and Sirius wants to reach out and touch it, to absorb it, to make it last forever. The best he can do is throw himself forward and tackle Remus to the ground, feeling the other boy’s laugh reverberate through his body as he does. Remus pushes him off like he always does, and Sirius rolls onto his back. Above them, the fireworks beat on, retraining both of their hearts to their rhythm. </p><p>“How do you know how to do this?” Sirius asks. He tucks his hands under his head and tilts his gaze up towards the sky. </p><p>“My Da showed me. When I was a kid, after really bad moons, he’d take me out the field and set them off to cheer me up.”</p><p>Sirius rolls his head to the side so he can trace his gaze over Remus’ profile. “You know you act like you’re such a rule follower Lupin, but I’m pretty sure this is sixteen types of illegal.”</p><p>Remus props himself up on his elbows and smiles. “Learned that from you, didn’t I?”</p><p>“What? Doing whatever you want, no matter the consequences?” </p><p>Remus pauses. The echoing pop of the fireworks fills up the silence. When Sirius looks at him again, Remus is almost sitting all the way up, his body angled towards Sirius and blocking out part of the sky. “There’s something to be said for that. It’s…” He trails off. His eyes are fixed on the fireworks. Sirius wonders if he realizes he’s this close.“I think wanting something so badly, and not letting yourself have it. I think that’s the sort of thing that can eat you up inside.”</p><p>“Do you… want things that badly?”</p><p>Remus looks down at him. “You have no idea how much I want things.”</p><p>“I do.” The word is so soft it’s barely there. </p><p>“Yeah?” Remus leans closer. He is suspended right above Sirius now. “What do I want?”</p><p>Remus’ face is taking up all of Sirius’ vision. Light is exploding behind him, shattering into hundreds of colors, and he looks like he’s caused it. He looks like he is the reason for every good and bright thing in this whole broken world. </p><p>“You want no one to know anything about you,” Sirius says. “but you also want someone to crack you right open and tell you everything inside because you could never bear to do that to yourself.” Remus’ gaze is pressing him into place. It is erasing their surroundings second by second. “You don’t ever want to look at what’s you’ve got in there, but you want someone else to. You want them to look at it and not be afraid.”</p><p>Remus’ lips barely move, as he asks, “Are you afraid?”</p><p>“Most of the time. But not of you.”</p><p>The pounding beat of the fireworks, their blinding lights, the quake of the crickets in the night, all of it vanishes. The only thing that exists is the brush of one of Remus’ curls against Sirius’ forehead and Remus’ soft grip on his wrist. Then even that is gently destroyed as Remus presses his lips against Sirius’, and the world becomes the feeling of Remus’ mouth and nothing more. Some deep painful knot in Sirius’ stomach, some splinter dug down into the softest part of his heart, is removed. Something breaks in him in the softest way a thing can break. A wave of light and goodness that he didn’t know he contained swells up, and he has to force it down to keep from smiling because he cannot smile and kiss at the same time. Sirius leans up as much as he can even though Remus is pressing him into the ground and tangles his hand in the other boy's hair. He tries to pull Remus down to him, to press their lips together as hard as he can as if pure force can say all of the things he’s been wanting to whisper for years but has been too fucked-up and broken to say. They lock together for a moment, and Sirius knows in the deep gut-clenching way you can know few things that they have been hurtling towards this for years. </p><p>Remus pulls away gasping at the exact moment light floods Sirius’ vision. Sirius turns his head towards the light, and his gaze meets the screaming tail lights of a truck parked on the road. It does not move. It blows exhaust out into the clean night air. They are crucified under its light, too blinded to see who’s driving. For half a second, Remus stares at it like it’s a wild animal. Then before Sirius can process what’s happening, Remus grabs Sirius' wrist and pulls him towards the car. </p><p>They trip over rocks and the bank of the road as they stumble towards the doors of their own beat-up truck. Remus yanks the door open on its rusted hinges and pushes Sirius across the seat to the passenger’s side. The minute he gets behind the wheel, the other truck pulls off down the road. They sit in the darkness and silence and the pent-up heat of the truck until the lights disappear into the moors. </p><p>"Who was that?" Sirius manages as Remus starts the car.</p><p>Remus is staring straight ahead, but his gaze is blank like he’s staring at nothing at all. "Does it matter?" he says. </p><p>Sirius’ heart is pounding in his chest. The fireworks are still pounding in the sky. The sound of them ricochets off the truck. The sound of this electrified thing that now lives between them beats through the air around them. Remus doesn’t breathe and doesn’t speak. He drives them home.</p><p>Their headlights part the darkness, but as the light of the fireworks vanishes, the night gets deeper. With every meter forward, Sirius keeps expecting the darkness ahead of them to just not move, but it always does. Sirius rolls down his window and leans his head out so he doesn’t have to look at the way Remus is gripping the steering wheel. He closes his eyes and fists his hand in the pocket of his leather jacket, letting the wind whip his face. </p><p>Sirius doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that they’ve reached the Lupin house. He can tell by the way the car bounces over the rocky driveway. When they reach the end of it, Remus stops but doesn’t turn off the car. The headlights illuminate the side of the old barn and the underbrush with a spidery glow. It whitewashes Sirius’ vision and makes him blink, but he doesn’t look away. He stares until it hurts. Beside him, Remus is still. His hand is on the key in the ignition. They sit for a moment that seems like it will never be broken, and then Remus twists his wrist, the car coughs off, and the lights fall asleep again. There are no other houses on this part of the moors. There is only darkness swimming between and around them. </p><p>Remus makes a sound that could be a sigh or could be him clearing his throat but is really just him trying to break the silence without having to commit to it. Sirius looks at him, and even though they are sitting right next to each other, he can barely make out the other boy’s features through the velvet dark.</p><p>He drops his head slightly and fixes his gaze on Sirius’ knee. He pushes a hand through his hair. “We can just--”</p><p>Sirius cuts him off. “No,” he murmurs. There is a spike of panic in his veins, and it feels unfamiliar. It’s the same thing Sirius felt last summer when they were hiking along the edge of the sea cliffs and Peter’s foot slipped.</p><p>Remus raises his head slowly and looks at him. Sirius doesn’t need light or a head unclouded with want and shame to read every expression on his face. Remus’ thoughts are always splayed across it; it’s a form of cartography that Sirius has been studying for years. “What?” Remus asks quietly.</p><p>“You were going to say we could pretend it never happened.”</p><p>They are staring at each other the way they stared at each other in the living room the day before. Sirius has no control over it. There is something untouchable, unreadable, invisible that breathes in the space between them when their eyes meet. Sirius wishes that he could take it with him to hold through what’s coming next. He wishes it existed everywhere. </p><p>Remus is silent. His lips part like they’re about to speak. Sirius doesn’t know what he’s about to say-- he doesn’t think Remus does either-- but for half a second Sirius considers the possibility that this is it. He considers a too silent breakfast tomorrow, a night spent in his bed at Grimmauld Place cursing himself and everything, more long stares that make his chest tight, and an overwhelming sense of anger and yearning blooms inside him. “No,” he murmurs. Before he can really think about it, he reaches out and clenches the fabric of Remus’ soft t-shirt in his fist. “We’re not gonna do that.” Sirius can’t tell if he tugs or Remus leans, but it doesn’t matter because their lips collide. </p><p>Sirius could be anywhere. He could be under miles of water or in the dreamy space of his imagination where this scenario has unfolded more times than he would ever admit. He could be on the Knight bus or in the desert or on the moon that Remus claims people have visited. He could be in any impossible place, and Sirius wouldn’t even fucking care because what do his surroundings matter when every painful ounce of his focus is fixed on Remus’ hand on his thigh, on the rough slide of Remus’ lips, on the soft bump of Remus’ nose against his cheek. What does anything matter when he has this. </p><p>Then Remus pulls back slightly, and Sirius falls forward onto him, and it’s not because he’s lost his balance. Before Sirius can get a word out or desperately reattach their lips the way they are supposed to be, the way they always should be, Remus fists his hands in the lapels Sirius’ jacket and pulls him closer. Sirius slides across the seat, their lips meet again, and two seconds later Sirius can no longer remember how he got on Remus’ lap, and he does not care. The steering wheel is pressing against his back, so he lifts himself up and tilts forward just as Remus reaches a hand up to steady to him. The hand slides along the back of his neck with friction that’s almost unbearable. It brushes over the nape of his neck and fists in the long hair that’s beginning to stick to his skin. It fists, and it pulls. Their lips break, and Sirius lets out a sound that maybe could have been a word in another life but is now just a messy, breathy moan that’s so desperate Sirius doesn’t recognize himself. Remus sucks in a breath, and at that exact moment, a rumble comes from above them, low and insistent. Sirius leans forward. As their foreheads touch, rain comes pouring down. </p><p>It shatters the silence, the darkness. It beats against the truck like victory. The dry earth kisses it as it lands. </p><p>“Sirius,” Remus whispers in his ear in the way Sirius has always wanted his name to be spoken. Their eyes meet. They are so close they almost can’t focus on each other. “It’s okay."</p><p>It washes the cracked earth clean. </p><p> </p><p>Dawn does come. When the cloak of night is pulled back, dew remains on each blade of grass, hugging it like something that knows it will have to leave. Remus stands beside Sirius where the farm meets the road, listening for the roar of the Knight Bus. One of Sirius’ hands is clutching his trunk. His other hand is woven with Remus’. They have a few minutes left and nothing more. </p><p>Remus’ hand squeezes Sirius’. Sirius takes in a breath, about to speak, and it rattles in his lungs. Before he can steady his voice, Remus turns towards him and pulls Sirius’ head to his chest, his arms wrapping gently around Sirius’ neck. His sweater is soft against the other boy’s cheek. It smells like lavender pain potions and smoke. Sirius breathes in until his lungs burn as if he can brand this moment into every cavity of his body. “I hate them,” he murmurs. </p><p>Remus just hums. He doesn’t say <em> no you don’t </em> or <em> it’s gonna be okay </em> or <em> I’m sorry </em>. He just hugs a bit tighter. </p><p>Sirius cannot return to London, but the world has never cared much for what he can and cannot do. There is something hurtling towards him, faster and darker than the Knight Bus. He cannot name it or give it a form. It is a fog that hovers at the edge of his mind like an omen. Sirius has never liked divination or astrology. He doesn't need tea leaves or stars to tell him when something bad is coming. He learned that skill long before he learned any other. He learned it alongside the secrets hidden in his mother’s mannerisms, the violent math buried beneath each glass his father downs. He knows without knowing that he is walking into something terrible. </p><p>“How do you..” he asks the soft pattern of Remus’ sweater. “Aren’t you scared? On the full moon?”</p><p>Remus takes the question and peels it back. He gently pushes Sirius’ defenses to the side and prods at the soft meat beneath. “You’re a Gryffindor. Brave,” he mumbles into Sirius’ hair. “And if you want to be brave, you have to be afraid.”</p><p>Sirius presses his face tighter against his chest because he can’t bear to look into the other boy's eyes. </p><p>A bang and a whoosh of air buffets against them. They let go of each other as the Knight bus door sighs and creaks open.  </p><p>“Alright,” Remus says and steps back, his hands moving to his pockets. </p><p>They stand there for a moment, a meter away and staring. Then Sirius drops his trunk on the dusty road. He clasps Remus’ face in his hands and kisses him hard and long. He tries to pour everything thrumming inside him into that kiss. He tries to steal as much strength from it as he can. Remus reaches up and rubs his thumb against Sirius’ forearm, and Sirius knows that he understands. “I’ll be here,” Remus murmurs. Sirius steps away. He picks up his trunk. The bus driver is staring at them through the rearview mirror. He steps onto the bus because if he doesn’t now, he never will. </p><p>As the bus jolts and gains speed, he grabs the handrail and watches Remus’ figure shrink away. Right before he disappears from view, Remus raises a hand. Sirius raises his hand, even though Remus can no longer see him. </p><p>As the moors bend and whizz by, Sirius thinks that there are very few things in this world that his mother cannot take away. This is one of them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>we got a little Wuthering Heights-y with all this weather symbolism and fuckin about on the moors</p><p>wooo wooooo heath (remus) cliff (lupin) let me in the window sorry I almost made you commit homicide, whatever your soul is made of yours and mine are the same<br/>and all that</p><p>i am emergencymanagement on tumblr as well. you are welcome on my silly little blog any day !</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. No Home in Goodness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He squeezes his eyes shut. Without having to conjure the image, she is there in front of him again, gripping his elbow as he silently screams. The image is frozen around the edges with horror. Then it cracks, and her face reassembles itself in the scene of another memory. Sirius is five. She is sitting across from him at a tea table in his uncle’s garden. A reluctant smile is dancing on the edge of her lips, a chocolate biscuit held between her long fingers. She is half-laughing at a joke his father is making. Sirius isn’t admiring her or loving her. He is far too young for that. He is simply looking at her like she is the sun; He is looking at her because what else would he look at but his mother?<br/>Was the terrifying thing in her eyes crawling under her skin even then? Was it hidden in the corner of her smile? Was it what made her send him away from dinner with his uncle that night and sit hungry, in his room, alone because he accidentally spilled a water cup that was far too big for him? Did it grow stronger over the years, quietly in the darkness of her body? Or had it always been there, waiting?  Is it waiting in him too?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This extension of "How Fragile We Are..." is about what happened to Sirius after he left the Lupins' and why he finally ran away</p><p>there's still some wolfstar in there, don't worry (in this house there will always be wolfstar)</p><p>tw: fucked up black family dynamics, child abuse (mostly implied or referenced), drinking, references to death eaters and war that's coming</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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</p><p>Kreacher has always been an awful, shrieky thing which is a hard reputation to uphold with the competition of Grimmauld Place, but Sirius swears he has become awfuller, and somehow, shrieker.</p><p>“Master Sirius,” he says when he opens the door, bowing down to the floor like he’s about to kiss Sirius’ feet. </p><p>Sirius picks up his trunk and steps past him. “I know you hate me. Let’s not pretend.”</p><p>“I welcome you, master,” the elf drawls.  </p><p>“Who taught you to be so sarcastic?” Sirius mutters as Kreacher disappears into the kitchen. </p><p>Just as the elf rounds the corner through one of the servant’s doors, his father steps out into the entryway, a freshly poured scotch in his hand. </p><p>“Sirius,” his father says. He’s headed to his study and has barely paused in his step as if he’s determined not to let this little conversation stop him. His drink is cradled in his hand like a baby. “You’re back early.”</p><p>“I’m not, actually.”</p><p>Orion pauses. “Well,” he says and walks away. </p><p>The foyer echoes with his receding footsteps for a moment. Kreacher is clattering in the kitchen. The sounds move around Sirius but do not seem to touch him. Sirius feels like he’s been rolled up in the inbetweenness of getting here, like his time at the Lupin’s is still unraveling from him, and he’s not at Grimmauld Place yet, not completely. He always feels like this when he returns. It shouldn’t be allowed, really, to be one place in the morning and in a completely different one by afternoon. Waking up in the warmth of Remus’ bed and falling asleep in the coldness of his own, it’s too much to hold in one day.</p><p>A door slams above him. There are footsteps in the hallway. Sirius jolts, grabs his things, and runs two steps at a time up the stairs, cursing himself for loitering so long. Just when he’s reached the top of the grand staircase, his mother steps out from the shadows of the hallway. </p><p>He straightens up and tries to steady his breathing so it doesn’t look like he was running from her. “Mother.”</p><p>“I see you’re back.”</p><p>“Well after your sweet note, I just had to rush home.”</p><p>She gives him a measured look, then begins to descend the stairs. “Kreacher,” she calls vaguely to the empty foyer as she walks.  </p><p>Sirius lets out a breath and turns down the hallway towards his room. </p><p> </p><p>Dinner that night is an ugly affair. Kreacher’s made pork chops, and they’re bleeding all over the plate. Nobody is speaking. Sirius hasn’t eaten dinner at Grimmauld Place since last summer, and in the ear-aching silence, he is trying to remember if they used to talk. The only memories he can drag up are explosive ones: his chair being pushed back from the table, clattering on the floor, his father pounding a fist on the table, yelling, always yelling as Regulus slips away. </p><p>His mother clears her throat. She’s a good three meters away from Sirius, at the head of the table. He shoots a glance at her. She’s staring intently across the room at his father. Every time she gets upset with Orion, she adds another leaf to the table, and now they are on opposite sides of the dining room from each other, almost up against the wall. It makes Sirius want to laugh in the way that hurts his chest, and he takes a hard sip of wine to keep it down.</p><p> She clears her throat again. His father looks up now. Sirius suspects that he heard her before but didn’t want to give up the peace of drinking alone at his corner of the table. A look passes between his parents.</p><p>“So Sirius,” Orion leans back in his seat. “How is school?”</p><p>Sirius pauses, his fork halfway to his mouth. Both of his parents are watching him. He can feel the warning rising through his body<em> . </em> “Fine,” he says. He takes a bite of the pork chop. </p><p>“That’s all you have to say?” his mother asks. </p><p>“I got all O’s on my OWLs,” he says before he can stop himself. The silence that follows is like a fly trap, sickeningly sticky. His words snag on them. He watches them sit there, hating himself for ever saying them at all. </p><p>His father is leaned back in his seat, drinking slowly. He’s done his job and is no longer here.</p><p>His mother begins to saw at her piece of meat. The scrape of metal echoes around the room. “How are your friends?” she asks. </p><p>“James is fine.”</p><p>“And the others?”</p><p>Sirius can feel the vacuum around him like a second skin. No one is looking at him. No one is speaking, yet he is at the center, and they are waiting.  “Never got the impression that you were interested before,” he says coolly. </p><p>“You told me you were at the Potters,” she says. Her gaze glides up to him and stays fixed.</p><p>There’s an old grandfather clock in the corner. It’s taller than all of them and made of ornately carved oak. It stands in the corner like a ghost or a shadow, one of the only decorations in this sparse tall room. As Sirius meets her eyes, he slows his heartbeat to the rhythm of its careful ticks. “I was.”</p><p>“That’s curious,” she says lightly. Her eyes are shining with the amusement of a cat watching a small bird as it tries to fly on injured wings. “When I tracked the owl it said that it had gone to Northern Wales.”</p><p>“I went on a short trip with them to the moors, mother. Is that such a crime?” The words come out harder than he wants.</p><p>Her knife grates harder against the china as she begins to cut her meat again. “See, that’s also quite curious, because the last I heard from Mrs. Potter, you were at a wedding with them in India.”</p><p>“I don’t…” Panic is beginning to rise in his throat. “It ended early and…”</p><p>Her knife clatters against the plate like a small bomb going off. Kreacher cracks into the room, starts to say “Miss…” then looks around the table at everyone’s faces and cracks away again. </p><p>She leans forward now. The cruel light in her eyes is gone. Sirius holds her gaze. “Do you think I’m stupid?” she whispers. </p><p>Sirius’ body doesn’t know which impulse to act on first. The door is a meter away, his knife is clutched tightly in his hand, and he wants to scream. All of them collide in a car crash of panic and he stays frozen, staring at her. She’s found a way to jam the fucking system, to render him useless, like she always does. </p><p>“I know who lives in Northern Wales.” She’s smiling, but it looks like it’s been cut into her face.</p><p>Sirius looks across the table at his brother for the first time that night. Regulus’ eyes are unreadable, and he’s completely still. “Fucker,” Sirius spits. Regulus recoils, and for the barest moment, hurt sinks into his expression. </p><p>Before Sirius can doubt himself, his mother says slowly, like she’s talking to a child, “Remus Lupin is mudblood, and his family is trash.” Sirius clenches every muscle in his body so he cannot move or speak. “I <em> told </em> you not to keep company like that. Him and,” she waves her hand, “the Peter boy. So please explain to me why you were staying at this--” she struggles with the word, “ this <em> boy </em>’s house.”</p><p>Sirius is motionless for a moment. He hasn’t unclenched his jaw, and he feels as if he’s being boiled from the inside out. When he finally speaks, it sounds like the syllables are being pulled from between his teeth. Slowly, he manages, “If the Lupins are trash, we are scum.”</p><p>Every part of Sirius’ body jolts at once as his father slams his fist on the table. Regulus’ chair wails on the floor as he pushes it back suddenly, gripping its armrests. Sirius tries to hold himself like stone. When he looks into his father’s eyes, he sees anger, fear, and a glint of warning, and it reads almost like love. </p><p>His mother puts her hands on the table and stands. The fabric of her robes flows from her like she’s rising from the grave. </p><p>Sirius stands too. He’s still holding his stupid little bread knife. His wand is upstairs. He can’t even brace himself for the curse he knows is coming because she will see, and he cannot let her know how much pain she causes him. </p><p>It doesn’t come. Instead, she says in a voice so low he can barely hear it, “You have run out of time, Sirius Black.”</p><p>It’s as if every body in the room pauses its living. Blood stops flowing, hearts stop beating, lungs collapse. Absolutely nothing moves. Stillness settles like dust.</p><p>In the beat of silence that follows, Sirius forces himself to move steadily. He folds up his napkin, places it on the table, hoping that small act will make her seethe, and walks out of the room, brushing past her as he leaves. She lets him go. The minutes he gets into the hallway, his fists clench, nails digging into his palm like a punishment. He opens his mouth in a silent scream, biting <em> fuck, fuck, fuck you, </em>into the quiet air with all of the force he can draw from the compressed fossil fuel layers of unnameable emotion that’s been building in his chest for years.</p><p> </p><p>Once he’s locked safely again in the dark pocket of his room, he begins to pace. He wears weary marks in the carpet of his room and moves through every emotion and album he can conjure up. He listens to the Stones, the Smiths, and Sinatra, and waits for it to be over. He is always waiting for it to be over. He’s always waiting to leave Grimmauld, to get out of detention, for Remus to forgive him again, to grow up, to run away and never have to think about his family again, to be unbearably light and happy and alive. It makes him want to scream, to crawl out of his own skin. Half of himself is begging him to go into his dining room right now and pick a fight, to get the shit beat out of himself just to feel something. The other half wants to sink down into the well of his bed and suspend himself away from the gnawing coldness of this house for a night’s sleep. Neither side wins. He paces and curses to himself and replays “There is a Light that Never Goes Out” over and over until his ears feel dull and dead. </p><p>By the time night has sunk into the corners of everything and the house is still, he is starving. </p><p>He turns all the lights off in his room, creeps to the door, and opens it slowly. The creak announces itself to the waiting hallway. Before he knows it, the door across from his own is also creaking open, and he’s standing across from his brother’s shadowed figure. </p><p>“Here to tell on me?” Sirius hisses. </p><p>“I didn’t tell her.”</p><p>“Have you just been waiting for me to open my door all night?”</p><p>Regulus doesn’t respond to that, just stands half-behind his door, his hand still tentatively resting on  the knob. After a moment, he says, “She’s caught you with their letters before, she knows who he is. I didn’t tell her.”</p><p>“Then how did she know where he <em> lives </em>?”</p><p>Regulus shrugs. </p><p>Regulus isn’t lying because he doesn’t do that. He’s so perfect at making himself invisible that it’s easier not to speak at all than to lie. There is a painful knot of tension inside of Sirius, and it is telling him that he is wrong for saying these things to his brother. His muscle memory tells him to bend over and shelter his brother, not shove him straight-armed away. He is trying to forget the memories of his body.</p><p> Sirius turns his back on his brother and begins to walk down the hallway.</p><p>“We’ve been at Hogwarts together for four years now, don’t you think if I was going to tell her about you and him, I would’ve done it by now?” His brother asks from behind him.</p><p>Sirius stops without turning around. “What are you talking about.” The sentence comes out flat.</p><p>Regulus’ door clicks shut.</p><p>Sirius turns around even though he knows his brother isn’t there. </p><p>“How did you know?” he asks the empty hallway. </p><p>As Sirius tiptoes down the velvet carpet of the staircase toward the kitchen, he cannot stop thinking about that question over and over. When they were so young, Regulus watched Sirius like a weathervane and learned to read the future from his brother’s catastrophic actions. Logically, it makes sense that he continued to watch Sirius, even at Hogwarts. Emotionally, it makes Sirius want to run back up the stairs and pound on his brother’s door until he cries.</p><p>But he is hungry. He pauses at the bottom stairs, and when he hears nothing and sees no light in the kitchen, he slips off the final step and moves towards food.</p><p>“Sirius.”</p><p>He stops in his tracks. <em> Motherfucker. </em> He bites down on, <em> what does it take to get you people to leave me the fuck alone? </em> and turns around calmly to face his father standing in the door of his study. “Yes?”</p><p>Orion inclines his head slightly towards the small room and disappears through the doorway. For a thin moment, Sirius considers going back up to his room and starving to death, but his father is speaking and moving softly, and his mother is nowhere in sight, and so he walks into the study.</p><p>Unlike every other room in this murderously depressing house, Orion’s study lit up with the warm glow of lamplight. His father has lit every wall mount and candle, and it looks like he’s trapped a bit of sun in the room and is letting it dance around the dark oak bookcases and the oddities that line them. There is something almost tender about his dedication to light, and the head-aching contrast of that makes Sirius wish he knew his father even less than he already doesn’t. He really can’t fucking deal with any more complications at this point. His father is a solitary animal, trapped in the crowded house of his family, occasionally baited to violence by the toxic combination of his upbringing and alcohol. He doesn’t invite people into his study. He doesn’t try to hold sunlight a little longer after it’s already slipped away.</p><p>Sirius plops down into one of the leather chairs in front of his Orion’s desk. It’s one of the ones that’s shiny and studded with dimples of leather buttons. It’s surprisingly comfortable, and Sirius doesn’t know why it’s here. His father’s back is to him. His shoulders are relaxed, and he seems to be moving purposefully as he shuffles around the small bar in front of him. Sirius can’t tell if he’s sober or not. </p><p>Orion turns around. Sirius stiffens, searching for that look in his eye he gets right before he’s about to swing, the one that’s bloodshot and heavy, that looks at Sirius like he’s another person, or maybe like Sirius is the same person but his father can see all of the sins he’s ever committed, all of the ones he ever will commit. As his father sets down two small crystal glasses on the desk, Sirius can only find exhaustion in his expression. He fills Sirius’ glass up with ruby liquid, and nods at him with something like pity. </p><p>“What’s this?”</p><p>“It’s good.” He nods again. “Go ahead.”</p><p>Sirius lifts the delicate glass to his lips and takes a sip. Sweetness and the spike of alcohol coat his tongue. </p><p>His father sits down in his chair and lets it drift to the side so that he can look out the window behind him at the soft glow of London’s lights. </p><p>Sirius waits for him to speak but he never does. They finish their glasses in silence, and his father pours himself another. He hesitates for a moment, looking at Sirius’ glass, then sets the bottle down and says, “Well.”</p><p>Sirius says nothing as he leaves. He hasn’t wished his father good night since he was too young to know better. As he pulls the door closed behind him, he sneaks a glance at him, looking out the window again, quiet and still, wanting something Sirius can’t know.</p><p>The door shuts and Sirius stands in the hall and tries to reconcile what just happened with the last few years of his father’s personality. In the gaping space of the dark house, Sirius feels the tenous thing they just shared double over on itself and disappear as if it was never really there at all. He feels it like an inmate feels his life fold up into itself as he leaves the table of his last meal. It was, and then it wasn’t, and there is nothing more to say or do about that. He goes to bed hungry.</p><p>As he lies in bed that night, he tries to call James on his mirror but gets no answer. He drifts off to the memory of waking up at the Lupin’s that morning, his legs tangled with Remus’ like that was their natural way of being. The moment is golden but not real enough. Sirius is reaching, reaching for it, and then he falls asleep. </p><p> </p><p>He wakes with the bleary sun and immediately slips out of his room and into the hall. He tiptoes to the end of it where a frosted window is beginning to glow with gray light and creaks the glass open, pausing to listen for sounds in the house. Just outside to the left of the window, in the clutch of a piece of scaffolding, he finds his letters. Regulus knows about this place, and yet his mother has not touched them. As Sirius pulls them to his chest, a heaviness settles there. </p><p>When he gets back to his bedroom, he spreads the pages of the letters out on his floor. None of them are from James. Before he touches the others, he picks up a quill.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Prongs,  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What happened to your fucking mirror, mate? I’ve been trying to get you for a day at least. If you’re dead, I want your broomstick and your room (it’s bigger than mine, even though we both know I’m the favorite child).  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m at Grimmauld right now. Mum summoned me back from Remus’ yesterday. You better get your mirror fixed because it’s already hell and aimlessly screaming at the sky isn’t cutting it, although it earns points for pure theatricality.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Did your head explode with egoism from all of your aunts telling you that you’re a dapper young man? Is that why you’re not answering? Or did you lose it? If you did, I’m going to lose it.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Your Best and Slightly Abandoned Mate,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Padfoot  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sirius puts the letter to the side to send later and moves on. </p><p>Peter’s is short and looks like it’s been written on a cocktail napkin from his father’s bar. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Padfoot,  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Remus said you’re home already. Hope things aren’t going too poorly for you in prison. If you want, I can send you some nasty caricatures of your mum. I don’t much remember what she looks like, but I can guess and add some extra warts.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Wormtail </em>
</p><p> </p><p>On the back, there’s a crude drawing of what Peter must think Walburga looks like. Sirius smiles and pins it up on his wall by the pictures of his friends. </p><p>Remus’ letter is the last one on the floor. Sirius picks it up and holds it for a second before reading it. It’s written on the sheaths of loose parchment Remus has piled on the left corner of the desk by the tattered copies of his school books. There’s a watermark from a cup of tea he set down on the edge of the letter. The other edge has been crinkled over and over accordion-style, the way Remus crinkles his paper when he’s thinking hard or nervous or both. Sirius runs his finger over the folds and feels the sensation of their edges race through his veins like electricity. He can’t help the stupid smile on his face. When Sirius has looked at these details for long enough that he can’t squeeze anything more from them, he reads:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Pads,  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m not sure how to start this letter. I wish you weren’t there right now. I understand that sending letters to me can be hard with your family lurking about every corner, but I hope you’ll write back as soon as you can for my sanity. I know it’s useless to ask you how it’s going because you’ll either make a melodramatic joke about murdering them or completely ignore my question, but I’m going to ask you regardless. I know you’re miserable, and you don’t have to hide it from me.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Things are quiet here without you. I almost want to put on my work boots and jump up and down the stairs to make it seem more like home. It’s quite a process getting used and un-used to your constant thumping. You left your shirt at my house by the way. I was going to send it back to you, but then I remembered all the times you not so inconspicuously nicked my jumpers (speaking of which, my gray one? with the navy zig zags on the cuff? don’t think I didn't notice) and I finally decided to just let you suffer without it. It smells like firewhiskey and London. Anyways.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> What I’ve been dancing around saying is I miss you. I really miss you, and I feel the need to tell you, and I hope you don’t find it odd. Letters aren’t enough.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Only a week more,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Moons </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sirius sits on the floor of his room, the letters he’s written and received spread out around him in a little halo glowing in the morning sun. Day is putting its pants on and getting ready to step out the door, and Sirius is starving for breakfast, but he’s not going down to the kitchen for hours more. He’ll wait until everyone has disappeared to their corners of the house, and then he’ll maybe fight Kreacher for the leftovers. Right now, he’s tracing his thumb over the worn edge of Remus’ letter and reading it again and again as if it can take him back to the moment Remus wrote it. Sirius wishes that Remus had put a time on it, so he could better imagine where Remus was and what his surroundings looked like when he was crinkling the edge of that paper. But he has nothing. His friends' letters are always everything, and they are never enough. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Moons,  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m still alive, don’t worry. They haven’t gone that far yet. I’m not thrilled to be here, but it’s not so bad, or at least, it’s hovering around its normal level of horribleness. Mum’s screechy and batty, and I think she thinks I just exist to witness her fits of passion.  </em>
</p><p>(Sirius pauses. Dinner last night had almost receded into the endless messy patchwork of insane shit his mother’s done, but now the memory of what she said hits him full force. )</p><p><em> Not to worry you or anything, but she found out I was staying at your house. She also found out where your house is. She’s also under the impression that I switched out of our dorm in year four and no longer live with you three, and I haven’t corrected her on that one yet. These are just things you should know in case you ever find yourself at a cocktail party engaged in casual conversation with that hell-demon of a woman. Not to worry though, she’s not going to do anything about it, not to you, anyway. </em> (Sirius pauses. If Remus were here, he would make a small noise or just stare at Sirius the way he does when he knows Sirius is lying, and Sirius would messily defend himself and say that he wasn’t lying until he finally admitted that he actually doesn’t know if he’s lying but he’s so so scared he might be, and Remus would shake his head in the soft way that only moves a few curls and maybe he would kiss him and--) <em> Even if she did come for you, Moony, I’d duel her into the ground. I’ve got youth and passion on my side, and I’m way fitter and more charming which must count for something. Anyways, she’s far too busy spending hours dressing up like a Queen on her way to her own beheading and hanging upside down from the ceiling by her feet like a bat to practice much spellwork or really care much about anything at all. I’m sure she’s already forgotten who you are. I’m sure of it. </em></p><p>
  <em> What I’m dancing around saying is I miss you. Why else do you think I stole your sweater? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> A week is a long time,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Pads </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He stays in his room all day. In his room, the world is small, and he can fill it up with whatever noises he wants. He put silencing charms on the walls long ago, so he can turn his music all the way up until it echoes off of the walls, coming back at him like a gift. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend like this room is floating free in the air, unattached to any house and any family. </p><p>The day slips past his window, out of sight. </p><p>He calls the family owl to his window as the sun goes down. He ties his letters to it and dodges when it tries to peck his forehead in tiny rebellion. For dinner, he cleans out his dwindling food stores under his bedside table. </p><p>Night settles down to sleep outside. The torches on his wall are gently struggling to light up the room.</p><p> He’s at his desk, writing down plans for the map that he’s going to tell James after he kills him for not answering his mirror when he hears his door creak open. He puts the pen down and turns around. The figure of his brother is illuminated in the haze of torchlight growing in from the hallway. Regulus softly shuts the door and walks forward. His head is bent. The hood of his robes has been pulled up over his head like he’s in mourning, his little black curls reaching up out of the front of it like baby birds with open mouths. He has learned to walk so quietly that if Sirius wasn’t looking, he wouldn’t know his brother was there at all. Sirius watches him move towards the foot of his four-poster and sit down. Regulus runs his hands over the red sheets, his eyes fixed on how they bloom and fold between his fingers. </p><p>“What?” Sirius asks.</p><p>Finally, his brother looks up at him. </p><p>Ever since Regulus was a child, his eyes have had a certain gravity to them. Last semester, Sirius read a muggle book on space, just to see what they thought of it all. He learned about black holes, how they are forced to absorb everything. There could be whole universes in there, and nobody would ever know. Sirius has fought his whole life to keep Regulus’ eyes light and shallow. He has never won. </p><p>“What?” he asks, softer. </p><p>Regulus shrugs. Sirius puts his hands on the sides of his chair as if to push himself out of it, but stops himself. Him going and sitting on the bed would be as foreign as Regulus truly answering his question. </p><p>Regulus arranges his hands in his lap and begins to pick at the raw skin on the cuticle of his thumb. “Uncle Alphard’s dying,” he says. </p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“He wrote me awhile ago.”</p><p>Regulus nods. “I see.” His head is still bent. His whole body is slightly curved over itself like it’s waiting to retract into nothingness at the slightest sign of trouble. Sirius has never seen himself without the help of a mirror, but he knows he has sat the exact same way. </p><p>“He probably didn’t want to disturb you,” Sirius tries. “And it’s not like…”</p><p>“...We’re very close.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>A long silence stretches between them. Regulus does not move from the bed. He turns his eyes to the walls, drinks in the room like he’s never seen it before which, in a way, he hasn’t. His gaze skates over Gryffindor pennants to the posters of muggle girls on Sirius’ walls. “These are ridiculous,” he says. “In more ways than one.”</p><p>Sirius just lets that one lie. </p><p>“Do you think...” Regulus starts as his eyes travel up the walls to the ceiling. There are stars painted all across it. When his gaze reaches them, he stops. The two of them painted them there when they were kids, in both of their rooms, so that whenever and wherever Regulus couldn’t sleep, he would have him and his brother to look at for comfort. That day is etched in Sirius’ memory; the paint he stole, the ladder he almost fell off, the way he had to pretend like he knew what he was doing as the two of them put themselves up in the plaster sky of the house like they were something holy. The memory plays like a movie with all the faces erased. He can’t recognize anyone in it. </p><p>“Do I think what?” he asks.</p><p>Regulus’ eyes snap down from the ceiling. His mouth is partway open in speech, but he has lost whatever he was going to say. He stares at Sirius vacantly for a moment, then recenters himself and looks back down at the bedpost, the wall, anything but his brother. “I just meant,” he stands up and smooths his robes, his eyes on the door. “What do you think it’ll be like when he’s gone?”</p><p>Sirius frowns. “You don’t talk to him anyway.”</p><p>“I meant mother and father. And the others. What do you think they’ll be like?”</p><p>“The same as always. Probably even more batshit. They always ignored him.”</p><p>Regulus nods curtly. “Well,” he says and walks towards the door. Right before he reaches the hallway, he pauses, looks half over his shoulder, and says, “And mother’s looking for you.”</p><p>“She knows where I am.”</p><p>Regulus shrugs and slips away. </p><p>Sirius sighs and turns back to his desk but doesn’t do anything. If she comes in here, who knows what she’ll find. She’s probably just itching to burn something in the fireplace in the foyer. He rakes his hands through his hair, then stands up. </p><p>His parents’ bedroom is on the opposite side of the hall, around a corner. Ever since Sirius was a child it’s been forbidden land. As he walks down the hallway, the paintings stare down at him, their eyebrows raised. </p><p>When he turns the corner, his mother is standing in the doorframe of her bedroom. Her hair is still up and her makeup is on. Pearls hang from her ears and around her thin neck, even though it’s nine at night. She folds her arms over her chest and says, “Good. Sirius. I need to speak with you.”</p><p>Sirius stands there for a long moment, expecting her to step out towards him, but she doesn’t. “What?” he says. </p><p>“What?” She repeats. Disgust lines the corners of her lips, but she keeps it behind her teeth. “What was the point of that question? Was I not clear enough for you?”</p><p>“Well normally when people say ‘I need to speak with you’ they start talking--” <em> they don’t just stand there staring at you in the dark like a fucked-up Victorian ghost </em>he almost finishes but doesn’t.</p><p>She turns on her heel and walks into her room, ignoring him. Sirius wishes he added the Victorian ghost part. Her figure moves towards the large chairs positioned in the corner by the fireplace that Sirius doesn’t think anyone has ever sat in. Following her into this room that he’s been so clearly forbidden from entering for all his life seems like the wrong thing to do. Not following her seems worse. As he passes through the doorway, he realizes that both could be the wrong answer if she wanted them to be. </p><p>She is arranging her skirt around herself in the velvet wingback chair. She is not looking at him. </p><p>He sinks into the seat across from her and tries not to look around. The last time he was here was four years ago when he snuck in one summer afternoon while she was at the Knott’s and tried to find the letters from his friends she had confiscated. He never did. He wonders what Remus wrote him then.</p><p>Few torches stand in the corners, dappling dim light over the ruby walls. Sirius has always wanted to point out the ironic color choice but has always known better.</p><p>He picks up an empty teacup that is sitting on the table beside him. “Why don’t we ever have tea like this, Walburga?” he asks, pretending to take a sip. “We really must make time for it.”</p><p>Her eyes harden over the fear that thrums beneath her gaze when she knows she’s being laughed at. “Put that down,” she snaps. </p><p>Sirius sets the cup down. “Do you have any biscuits?” he asks. </p><p>Walburga flicks her wand. The stinging force of a slap strikes his cheek. </p><p>“A no would have sufficed.”</p><p>“You have always embarrassed me.”</p><p>“I promise I don’t do it for you.”</p><p>But she has started her speech, and she is not listening. “If I had known you would turn out like this, I would have drowned you in the bath, quite honestly.”</p><p>Sirius leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “That <em> would </em> have been nice, mother. I hear it’s a very peaceful way to go.” His words are lilting and playful. Inside he feels like Remus’ television when it’s turned to the wrong station, staticky and buzzing with nothing. </p><p>“But you are my eldest son, and nothing will ever change that. In the eyes of the world, you are the heir. Our legacy rests on your shoulders. You are responsible for carrying on our name.” Sirius calls in all of his underused willpower in an attempt not to laugh. “And based on,” she gestures vaguely at him, “it surely does not surprise you to hear that I have had incredible difficulty finding a suitable girl willing to marry you.”</p><p>“<em> Marry?” </em></p><p>She gives him a dismissive wave then props her elbow on the arm of the chair, holding her hand in a useless aristocratic way by the side of her head. “Obviously not now, but don’t pretend you’re not aware of how these things are arranged. It’s mortifying for a family like ours not to have the bloodline guaranteed by the time a child graduates. With the way things are going now, that may not happen.” She sighs. “Honestly, the burden your behavior puts on this family is immeasurable. I don’t know how you stand it. I know that the guilt and shame would eat <em> me </em> alive.” </p><p>“Is this what you called me in for? To tell me that I’ve disappointed you? Goodness, mother, if only I’d known sooner.”</p><p>She stands up and walks behind her chair, saying over her shoulder, “The point is, you have a meeting at the Malfoys tomorrow.”</p><p>“Is this a blind date?”</p><p>“I haven’t the faintest idea of what that means.”</p><p>“Am I expected to shag this bird?” Sirius only gets to keep all of his limbs because she has no idea what any of those words mean, and she's pacing back and forth, her hands clasped behind her back, ignoring him again. </p><p>“Change is coming. Many prefer to live in their ignorance and ignore the shapes on the horizon, but they are there, and they will only grow stronger.”</p><p>“What are you talking about?”</p><p>“Already, we have shown what we can do. Already, the silence forced on purebloods by muggles for centuries has been broken. We are fighting back.”</p><p>Sirius digs his fingers into the plush of the chair. His cheek is burning from the slap. Any levity he was holding onto has folded into darkness.  “Are you talking about the murders?” His voice comes out low, like a murmur. </p><p>She looks him dead in the eyes. There is a wildness there that makes him shiver. “He calls them the cleansings.” </p><p>Sirius starts to rise out of his chair. She flicks her wand, and his shoulders slam back into the cushion.</p><p>“You know who did them?” He can’t breathe. </p><p>She ignores him. “There is a man. Perhaps he is greater than a man. He understands the struggles of people like us. He understands that we need to rebalance, to purify the wizarding world, to take from the muggle-borns what they have taken from us.”</p><p>“And what have they taken?” He stands up this time, and she doesn’t stop him. </p><p>“Everything,” she hisses. “And they will take more--”</p><p>“Do you even hear yourself?”</p><p>“Regulus didn’t show his powers until he was almost seven! He comes from the purest magical blood there is. He should have confirmed his wizardry <em> years </em> before, and there are stories like this all around the country, just listen. They are diluting our power, stealing it for themselves…”</p><p>Sirius steps back and fists his hands in his hair, straining with every filament in his body not to scream. </p><p>Her hand reaches out and claws his elbow in a vice grip. Her gaze bores into his. “You are going to the Malfoys’ tomorrow. You are going to offer up your abilities and your loyalty. You are going to redeem yourself.” She releases him. He can’t breathe. “You do not have another choice.” She shakes her head. “I have been too lenient on you. Even after Andromeda, I have always believed that the values I raised you with would trump your rebellious spirit and that you would come back into the folds of this family, but I am out of patience, Sirius. There is no mercy left for you.”</p><p>His eyes are glued to hers. It’s been years since he’s looked at her for this long. As he does, he can’t remember if he ever looked at her at all. He swears he’s never seen a face like hers. “I understand,” he whispers.</p><p>She steps back. “Good.”</p><p>The wildness drains out of her eyes as quickly as it rose, and she nods towards the door, breaking eye contact. “You may go.”</p><p> </p><p>By the time he darts into his room and shuts the door behind him like it means safety, his breath is coming fast. Remus’ sweater is hanging off one of his bedposts. He needs that. He will have to take that. <em> Is James home yet? He must be. </em> But Peter’s house is closer. It’s in London. Last time he was at Peter’s house, one of Peter’s siblings was sleeping on the floor because there wasn’t a bed. They have a coffee can they put sickles in and all share. He cannot. He cannot. Remus. Remus. Remus. Remus would take him without a second thought. What if they follow him? He can’t go to Remus’. He will have to go to James’. He takes out his mirror and calls James’ name. No one responds. <em> Fuck. </em></p><p>He sinks to his knees in front of the trunk by his bed. His family is still awake and could walk in at any moment. He doesn’t dare start packing, but still, he cannot be here by morning. It wasn’t supposed to happen now. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. There were going to be fireworks, and he was going to flip them all the bird, and it was going to be glorious, and he wasn’t going to end up shaking alone on the floor of his bedroom. He fist his hands in his hair again. This is good. He wanted this. Didn’t he always want this? To break free. To be done. To run away from his family’s sickening insanity and never look back? Yes, he did. This is good. </p><p>He squeezes his eyes shut. Without having to conjure the image, she is there in front of him again, gripping his elbow as he silently screams. She looks possessed, like a painting come half-alive, resuscitated by madness. The image is frozen around the edges with horror. Then it cracks, and her face reassembles itself in the scene of another memory. Sirius is five. She is sitting across from him at a tea table in his uncle’s garden. A reluctant smile is dancing on the edge of her lips, a chocolate biscuit held between her long fingers. She is half-laughing at a joke his father is making. Sirius isn’t admiring her or loving her. He is far too young for that. He is simply looking at her like she is the sun; He is looking at her because what else would he look at but his mother? </p><p>Was the terrifying thing in her eyes crawling under her skin even then? Was it hidden in the corner of her smile? Was it what made her send him away from dinner with his uncle that night and sit hungry, in his room, alone because he accidentally spilled a water cup that was far too big for him? Did it grow stronger over the years, quietly in the darkness of her body? Or had it always been there, waiting? Sirius stares at the curves carved into the decorative surface of his trunk. They seem to be moving, taunting him. Is it waiting in him too?</p><p>The clock strikes midnight. Its tired tolls echo through the still house. The lights in his parents’ room have gone out. In the silence, Sirius begins to pack. </p><p>He spells an old backpack Peter gave him light enough and big enough on the inside to hold anything. Everything in his trunk goes inside. He grabs the book on his nightstand, pulls the photos of him and his friends off the wall. James’ mirror goes in his pocket, his wand goes in his hair. He looks around. </p><p>All of his posters are still on the wall. He couldn’t take them down if he tried. The shelves of old books he’s already read aren’t necessary, and he couldn’t take them even if they were. The owl in the corner isn’t his. It bites him anyway. This room isn’t his. He doesn’t love it. It isn’t home. He has lived here off and on for sixteen years. In some ways, it is all he’s ever known. It is so funny and so not very funny at all how none of those things matter anymore.  </p><p>Before he leaves, he takes a piece of parchment from his desk and writes: <em> You will never see me again. </em>He places it on top of where his family robes and ring are piled on his bed, and he walks out the door. </p><p>He has had a lifetime to learn where the floorboards of the long hallway creak. He stays close to the edges, ducks below the portrait that likes to scream, then crosses to the other side in one wide step when he reaches the bust of his grandfather. The torches on the wall throw shadows around like a warning, and he watches every one of them for the familiar slant of his mother or father. When he reaches the staircase leading down to the foyer, he slides down the banister and sticks the landing silently. A childish smile creeps onto his face as he straightens up. </p><p>It’s a straight shot to the front door. All he has to do is walk across the foyer, and he is there. He checks on the left side of the staircase to see if the light is on in his father’s study. He leans to see if the light is on in the kitchen. He listens for Kreacher. Nothing. There are no more reasons to stall. </p><p>He hears a creak behind him.</p><p>Regulus is standing at the top of the stairwell. In the dim light and his long robes, he looks like a ghost. “Where are you going?” he whispers. Sirius can barely hear him.</p><p>“Out,” Sirius manages. His throat is suddenly too thick to speak through. </p><p>“For how long?”</p><p>“Just… a little while.”</p><p>Regulus nods and stays still. </p><p>Sirius uses all of the strength in his body to turn around as if it’s just another movement. He stares down at his feet and watches them carry him towards the door. The image of the ground barely registers in his mind. All he can see is his brother at the top of the stairs. </p><p>The heavy oak door is in front of him. He reaches out, touches its cold handle, and pulls.</p><p>“Please, wait.” The words echo around the chamber between them. They echo around Sirius’ chest, through his ribs and his heart. </p><p>Sirius pauses, his hand on the open door. He looks back but can’t make out his brother’s face through the darkness. He can’t even begin to guess what expression is on it. He lost that ability years ago. </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>The silence between them is alive. It feels like it’s not only measuring itself by time but also by the space between them, the space that’s been growing between them for years. It stretches and stretches and stretches until it is so impossibly large it can’t be seen by just one person standing in just one place. Sirius can’t hear Regulus’ breath. He can’t hear whether it’s coming quick and shallow like his own. All he can see is his brother’s shadow at the top of the stairs, one hand stretched out tenderly to the side, resting on the banister for support. The silence must be at a minute now. It never stops stretching. </p><p>Sirius knows that if he doesn’t move, they will stand like this forever, looking at each other but unable to see each other, waiting for nothing. They will not move until dawn, until it’s too late. Day will come, and Sirius will have to leave the next night, and Regulus will catch him again, and they will wait again until dawn again, and it cannot go on like this. </p><p>Regulus says nothing. </p><p>Sirius leaves.</p><p>As soon as he steps into the cool breeze, he lets out a ragged breath like someone has slammed him against a wall. The door shuts behind him. Before he can turn around and look at it one last time or touch its soft wood, before he can think about his brother still at the top of the stairs, he runs. His breath rips in and out of him, swimming in his ears. He pushes harder until he’s sprinting. Bent boughs of trees reach out to him like hands in the dark. Houses that have witnessed his every coming and going for years peer down at him. The shadow of a woman flashes by him. She is standing on her front stoop, holding the railing. A shattered breath breaks out of him. </p><p> He runs so fast he feels like he’s about to fall apart. He runs until every cell in his body is screaming at him to stop and threatening to unravel him at the seams. He does it because has to, he has to, he has to because how can he stop now that he’s seen what he’s seen and done what he’s done?</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t think about where he’s going, but he ends up by the river. The park beside it is swimming with shadows. The night is deep and quiet. </p><p>He passes through the park and stumbles to a stop at the water’s edge. As he leans against the metal railing meant to keep people from falling in, he lets his body shake and breathing slow. It feels like he’s gently being electrocuted. It’s not a paralyzing shock, just a slow painful current of energy looping around and around his body, breaking down any sense of togetherness he had into tiny, frazzled pieces. </p><p>The electricity crackles up the back of his neck and pulls all his muscles taut. It’s not safe to be still like this. They could be behind him. They’re not behind him, of course they’re not. They’re in bed. Unless they heard the door slam, and then they could be behind him. His hands grip the cold metal. He throws a glance over his shoulder. There is nothing behind him. He is fine.</p><p> He is vibrating in his skin. His joints are wobbling in exhaustion. Every hair on his neck is being held up like his mother is examining them, showing proof of his weakness.Sirius lets go of the railing and begins to pace. There is nobody out and no cars on the roads. It’s stupidly quiet for London at night. He wants to scream <em> What the hell are you all doing! Where are you! </em> He wants to demand answers. Why are they making no noise! He needs noise! Maybe he could get in a fight. He doesn’t have the energy to get in a fight. Maybe he should lay down. No he shouldn’t lay down, where would he lay down, he’s in the middle of London, and he’s not tired anyway, he doesn’t even want to lay down, he really just wants a fag and maybe to talk to Remus and maybe for James to answer his <em> fucking mirror. </em>He rips the mirror out of his pocket.</p><p>“James,” he says loudly. No answer. “James,” a little louder. Then he screams it, “James!”</p><p>Nothing. </p><p>“You fucker!” he yells. The glass glints blackness back at him. “I fucking hate you!”</p><p> He hurls it on the ground. It bounces off the concrete like a rubber ball.</p><p> Of course, Potter charmed it. Of course, he fucking knew Sirius would do that and charmed it. A shot of guilt freezes over him.</p><p>Until James answers, he has nowhere to go. He’s never not answered before. </p><p>Sirius runs his hand through his hair and turns back towards the river.</p><p>He has nowhere to go. The thought repeats in his head. He could do anything right now, and no one would care. Sirius has never thought something so glorious and so awful before. A mad grin splits across his face. Wind whips across the river and stings his cheeks. </p><p>“I’m free!” He yells at the stretching blackness. Then, because absolutely nothing can express it better: “Fuck!”</p><p> A pigeon takes flight off the railing next to him, fed up with his antics.</p><p> He pounds his fist on the cold metal, shaking it in its concrete boots, still grinning, and screams, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” until his lungs are scraped raw.</p><p>The once solid world has shown its cards. It’s clear now that it’s going to fall to chaos and war and bloodshed, it’s just a matter of when. But that moment hasn’t come yet, and although Sirius knows that cracks lie deep in the foundation, everything still stands so tall. It would be merciful to cut the suspense short and just burn it all down. Sirius doesn’t know much about razing entire cities to ash, so he settles for screaming, “What the fuck is this!” with all of the force in his lungs. The lights across the river wink at him cheekily. The city still stands. He kicks the metal one last time and then recoils from the shock of pain it sends through his foot. “Fuck you!” he yells at the railing, but the swear ends in a delirious laugh bubbling up in his chest. “Fuck all of you!” he yells at no one. </p><p>The laughter breaks free, and he can’t stop it. It takes him over like a phantom. He lets it shake his chest and split his face open, and he gets drunk on its insanity. “Look at me now!” he shouts and swings his arm out like a circus performer revealing his next trick. Then his arm falls limply to his side, and he steps away from the railing. In an instant, the delirium turns over into something heavy and dark. The smile slips from his face. He sinks down onto a cold bench by the riverside and cradles his head in his hands.</p><p>His breath is running away from him. It’s inflating and deflating his lungs over and over again without permission. His throat is knotting on itself, his heart is knotting on itself, his stomach is knotting on itself. He slams the palm of his hand against the bench. A dull throb shoots up his arm and buckles his elbow. The only sound he can make is a wheezing gasp. He is choking on his own breath. </p><p>
  <em> Pull yourself together, pull yourself together, pull yourself together, make this stop, pull yourself together-- </em>
</p><p>Bent over his knees, his face hidden even though he’s in the middle of an empty park at one o’clock in the morning, Sirius begins to cry.</p><p>For an hour, the tears take so much from him. He’s tired halfway through, but his body is no longer listening to him. It won’t let his chest stop shaking. It won’t let him stop making those awful, empty sounds. </p><p>He slips down from the bench to the concrete so he’s sitting on the ground, back pressed up against the wood. There’s a bottle of Jameson in his backpack he salvaged from his room. He drinks it. </p><p>Slowly, the alcohol makes everything inside of him and outside of him blur and garble into each other. There are no more complicated things because simple things have become complicated. The bottle empties seemingly on its own accord. His throat burns like a skinned knee, and Sirius closes his eyes against it because it’s all he ever wants to feel. His face is wet and the gentle wind is making his cheeks sting. The bottleneck is cold in his hand, and he’s grateful for it. He loves this bottle neck and this bench pressing into his back. He is so tired. It’s too hard to lay down on this unforgiving sidewalk.</p><p>He stumbles across the concrete, half-laughing, half-crying, unable to fully commit to either, and touches down on the soft patch of grass of the park along the water’s edge. He’s done it! He’s walked, and he’s sat down, how magnificent… the tap shuts off, and it all trickles to black. </p><p> </p><p>“Sirius,” a voice is calling his name. </p><p>Every dormant part of his body awakes at once. He whips his wand out of his hair. The darkness is dancing around him. Bright lights across the river blur the corners of his night vision. Every tree trunk looks like a figure. He grabs his backpack. </p><p>“Siriussss!” The voice trills.</p><p> James’ voice. From his back pocket. </p><p>“Motherfucker,” he murmurs and pulls the mirror out. </p><p>“Mate!” James is grinning at him from the semi-dark of his bedroom. Sirius can see the lamp he always lights when it’s late at night, and he doesn’t want to wake up his parents, glowing in the corner. </p><p>His pulse begins to slow. “Took you long enough,” he murmurs. </p><p> He can hear that his words are slurring, but James just smiles and says, “Oh you missed me so much, did you? Well, lucky you, I found it again.”</p><p>“You <em> lost </em> the <em> mirror </em>?” A smile creeps into Sirius’ voice. The world is slowing back to normal speed, but now it’s slowing too much.</p><p>“Like you’ve never done it before, and yes, but only because we had to get home in a rush because there was an emergency at the hospital, and they needed mum. It got all jumbled up in my bag, and--” Sirius opens his mouth to say <em> why didn’t you just accio it </em>, but James raises his finger and says, “and I couldn’t just go ahead and summon it because I put an anti-summoning charm on it because of--”</p><p>“The prank war with Remus and Peter,” they both say at once. </p><p>“Classic,” Sirius says. His left hand is still gripping his wand so hard it hurts. </p><p>James leans back on his bed and tucks his arm behind his head. “Anyways,” he continues, “What did I miss?”</p><p>“Not a whole lot.” The words sound like he’s reading them off a card. He fixes his eyes on the lights across the river. The world is so hazy and hard to hold onto.</p><p>“What?” James asks. Sirius doesn’t respond. James sits up. “Where are you?”</p><p>Sirius looks around him. “Err…”</p><p>“Aren’t you supposed to be at Grimmauld? I thought they were keeping you for a week until Hogwarts. Did you run away again?”</p><p>Sirius wants to shove the mirror back in his pocket. Now that the adrenaline has died, his head is swimming with alcohol, James’ questions feel like needles. “Mmm,” he murmurs, hoping that will kill the questions.</p><p>“What are you…. where are you?” James repeats again, his voice strained. </p><p>“I’m in the bloody woods, relax, would you?” he snaps.</p><p>“Are you pissed?”</p><p>“Maybe a bit.”</p><p>“Why in the hell are you pissed in the woods? It’s three in the morning?”</p><p>Sirius rolls his eyes away from the mirror. “Oh look who’s all responsible now.”</p><p>“Oi, make fun of me all you want--”</p><p>“Oh, look who’s pretending like he didn’t get drunk off his arse with me in the Forbidden Forest last spring--”</p><p>“--Just want to know why my best mate is pissed in the middle of the woods--”</p><p>“--I was having a kip, alright?”</p><p>“In the <em> woods </em>?”</p><p>“How can I make it clearer for you, Jamie?”</p><p>“Why are you being such an arse right now?”</p><p>“You want to know why?” Sirius raises his voice. “You nosy git. Because my parents wanted me to become a fucking Death Eater. You ever heard of those? You been reading the paper, huh? While you were off at your happy family wedding--” Sirius gestures vaguely although James can’t see his arm. “And doing… whatever you been doing,” Alcohol hangs heavy in his voice. His sentences are connecting like they’re supposed to. “Not answering your mirror when I’m in the fucking woods… it’s a park, actually… I been here, with my backpack, fuckin’ drinking, trying to forget that... trying to…”</p><p>“I’ll come get you.”</p><p>“Like I want you to come get me.” Sirius puts his mirror down on the ground so James can only see the trees. </p><p>“Pick the mirror back up, Sirius.” He doesn’t. “I’ll go on my broom.”</p><p>“Already thought of that, you daft fuckin’ peacock,” Sirius says, then laughs at the fact that he just called his best mate a peacock. “Bit too far, innit?”</p><p>“Get on the Knight Bus, mate, come on,” James says softly.</p><p>“I don’t think they run ‘em at this hour.”</p><p>“Yes they do, that’s why it’s called the Knight Bus.”</p><p>Sirius doesn’t have it in him to tell James how wrong that is. “With a K,” he tries. </p><p>“Just call one, mate, come on.”</p><p>“Bad experiences,” he leans back on his elbow. “With Remus. Left me like four miles away...”</p><p>“Just get on the bus,  please.”</p><p>Sirius lies on his back. The sky is dark blue, but too light for stars. The jagged corner of the moon is peeking through the trees. The canopy of leaves cuts it into a crescent shape. It looks like it’s smiling at him. He smiles back, then scowls because he remembers how mean it’s been to Remus, stupid moon. The night feels cool and velvet soft now. The alcohol is pushing him towards sleep like a hand pushing a head beneath water. “Whadd’you think Remus is doing right now?” he manages.</p><p>“I-- what? Probably sleeping?”</p><p>“Mmm,” Sirius hums. “Don’t hang up on me,” he murmurs. </p><p>“Just get on the bus, mate,” James’ voice says from further away.</p><p>He lets his eyes drift closed.  </p><p>“Padfoot please.” A breeze tickles his face. He smiles. “You really think you can still be there in the morning?”</p><p>Sirius opens his eyes. One heavy word swims up from his subconscious: <em> Fuck </em>.</p><p> </p><p>The Knight bus bangs onto the street beside the park with so much noise and clamor that Sirius stumbles backward and almost falls down. Sickness wells up inside him, but he grips onto the handrail and manages to pull himself on board. </p><p>“You all right, mate?” the driver asks. </p><p>Sirius laughs but it comes out watery and out of tune. “Oh yeah,” he says and reaches into his pocket for eleven sickles. As soon as he sees his hand in front of him holding the cool pieces of metal he decides he can’t be bothered to count them and just dumps them all in the man’s hand. He calls the address over his shoulder and bumps back to a bed in the corner, then collapses on it. </p><p>“Padfoot,” James is calling his name again. </p><p>The Knight bus hurtles forward, and Sirius slides to the end of the bed. He braces himself against the wall and pulls out the mirror. </p><p>“On the fuckin’ bus, look.”</p><p>“Don’t put me in your pocket.”</p><p>Sirius lolls his head back against the window behind him and looks out the one opposite him at the black flash of London. “I do what I want.”</p><p>“Keep the mirror open until you get here, promise?” </p><p>Sirius closes his eyes. He feels like an anchor suspended in water. He feels like he’s dying. “Promise.”</p><p> </p><p>When the bus jolts to a stop almost an hour later, he has started to feel more solid again. His brain is still sloshing around like jello but walking in a straight line is only half as difficult. He trips on the bottom step of the bus and his knees hit the asphalt, scraping them raw through the rips in his jeans. The bus disappears. </p><p>All of the lights in the Potter’s house are on. It’s glowing like an animal with illuminated eyes. The house has joined the warm family of houses that live at night and beckon through their lights to everyone on the street. James must have told them. Sirius puts his forehead down on the asphalt. </p><p>“Padfoot.” It’s not coming from his mirror this time. </p><p>James is standing in the front yard, his hands tucked in the pockets of the flannel pajama pants he’s been wearing since he was thirteen that come up short a few inches above the ankles. </p><p>Sirius begins to haul himself to his feet and move forward, but before he can make much progress, James’ arm is slung over his back, holding him under the armpit. They walk forward in silence like that into the house. </p><p>All of the lights are on inside. James’ parents are nowhere in sight. Sirius is almost too drunk to be properly thankful for that.</p><p>James leads him up the arching staircase to the second floor. They rest on the landing. The light in James’ parents’ room is on, but there is no sound coming from it. James leads them up the last set of stairs to his room. </p><p>The bed is unmade. The mirror is propped up on the windowsill where James can always see it. There are two plates with sandwiches cut in diagonals the way Mr. Potter makes them. </p><p>Sirius drops his backpack to the floor, kicks off his boots and trips forward onto the bed. It smells like James’ hair potion. He curls into the corner up against the wall and pulls the sheets up to his shoulders. The light turns off. </p><p>“Is it for good this time?” James asks as the bed creaks with his weight. </p><p>Sirius barely nods. He feels as if he’s replaced with a paper and glass version of himself. This night has gently wrung him into something fragile. </p><p>The mattress dips as James lies down. “Good.” A long silence passes between them. Being in James’ presence is like being in his own skin. He doesn’t have to try to belong. He knows what James will say and do before he does. He knows that he will say next,“You’re not hurt.” It’s not a question, but it’s not certain enough that it can go unanswered.</p><p>Sirius shifts onto his back so that they’re side-by-side, their eyes trained on the ceiling. “No,” he murmurs.</p><p>The ceiling is plastered with drawings, photographs, old posters, even letters although they’re too high up to read. Sirius once asked James about it. He said seeing his whole life spread out like that helped him fall asleep at night. A deep pain settles down among the mash of organs in Sirius' chest. It stays there, quiet, thrumming. Sirius does not think of his name or the image of him on the stairs. He just lets the feeling live there in the careful hope that it will not grow. He has no other choice. </p><p>“What did they do?” James whispers. </p><p>Sirius lets out a breath. “I…” There’s so much inside of him it’s like he’s fit a hundred lifetimes in his chest. “I’m just tired.”</p><p>“Yeah,” James breathes. “Yeah, I know. Sorry.” He pauses, then asks quietly, “Do you want your sandwich?” </p><p>“Nah. Not hungry.”</p><p>They lapse back into silence. Sirius lets his eyes slip close. Soberness is beginning to chafe him like an itchy sweater. He doesn’t want to be awake when it finally wraps around his body.</p><p>As Sirius’ consciousness is beginning to float away balloon by balloon, James whispers, “I don’t know what to do.”</p><p>Sirius wants to say <em> just be quiet </em>but that sounds too harsh and not in their usual way. And really, he doesn’t want James to be quiet. He just doesn’t want anyone to ask anything of him anymore. “Just stay,” he murmurs. </p><p>James does.</p><p>Somewhere in the deep directionless space between sleeping and waking, he whispers, “you’re saving my life”. The words murmur like the rustle of a foot shifting in the bedsheets, and Sirius doesn’t know if they ever make it past his lips. It’s possible that he only thinks them, that they get tangled in the briar mess in the corners of his mouth that catches what he should say but can’t. He hopes as he tumbles down that James knows anyway. </p><p>Sirius wakes up to the worst hangover of his life. The sun is blaring in through the curtains. If its light were a sound, it would be an air raid alarm. If the world was a taste, it would be copper blood after biting your tongue. Sirius has actually bitten his tongue. It’s throbbing. </p><p>He lies in bed for a long moment, letting the bright bleakness beat against him. His limbs feel like they’ve been poked with a million shots, filled up with a murky heavy liquid that makes him ache sweetly and unable to move. He rolls his head to the side. The sheets beside Sirius are pressed down in James’ shape, but James is gone. The bedroom door has been carefully cracked just enough to let some of the golden light from the hallways spill through. From the kitchen below, a song is crooning from the radio Mrs. Potter keeps above the sink. She is singing along, slightly off-key, stopping every few seconds to say something in a sharp and playful tone to whoever is in the kitchen with her. </p><p>Sirius pulls himself slowly to his elbows and runs his hand over his face. He feels like he should be feeling something right now, but every time he tries to feel something, the unimaginable wideness of everything that could happen next rushes towards him like a train bearing down on a man tied to the tracks, and something freezes solid over his heart. </p><p>There are footsteps on the stairs. Sirius drops his heads into his hands and closes his eyes. He feels the soft water of his hair falling between his fingers. The footsteps come closer. They pause outside the door. </p><p>“I’m alright, James,” Sirius manages. His voice sounds like it's been gently scraped raw. </p><p>The door creaks open. </p><p>“Sure you are,” The words roll like hills in his accent, like stones in his mouth. </p><p>Before Sirius can stand up, Remus has shut the door behind him and crossed the room. The bed creaks as he sits beside Sirius, and for a moment, Sirius can’t breathe. Remus’ presence smacks him in the face like cold water.  He is immobilized and set alive by the electrocuting shock of it. Across the small space between them on the bed, Remus reaches out a hand like a question. Sirius unfurls his own palm, and the tips of their fingers graze each other like they do in that old muggle painting that always inexplicably makes tears well up in Sirius’ throat when he sees it.</p><p>“Pads,” Remus whispers, the rough pad of his pointer finger barely kissing the lines of Sirius’ left hand. </p><p>It feels like someone cutting marionette strings. Every muscle in Sirius’ body exhales, and he sinks forward like a ship going down, landing on Remus’ bent leg as Remus folds himself over him, enveloping him in the scratch of his sweater and the careful butterfly beat of his lungs expanding and deflating over Sirius’ head. </p><p>“Pads,” Remus whispers again like it's a revelation. </p><p>Sirius closes his eyes. For the first time in his life, he lets himself rest.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I wrote this partially as catharsis because I share much of what Sirius is feeling in this piece and partially because I'm obsessed with Sirius Black and what his home life must have been like. I mostly just did it because I wanted to, but I really hope somebody out there likes it too. If you did, please leave me a comment. It would make my heart explode in a million butterflies. </p><p>title stolen from Anne Carson's poem "The Glass Essay" when she says "I felt as if the sky was torn off my life/I had no home in goodness anymore"</p><p>also just ignore that "There Is Light that Never Goes Out" didn't come out until like ten years later. Pretend like the Smiths released a decade-early wizard copy or something because the song is too perfect for Sirius' teenage angst to not include (Oh, please don't drop me home / Because it's not my home, it's their home / And I'm welcome no more)!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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